The Rose of Middleham

Prologue

Grey Friars Chapel

Leicester

25th August 1485

There was a chill inside the chapel and a damp mustiness that clung to the air. Light, like arrow shafts, shot from windows set high in the stone walls, fell in golden pools on the patterned floor.

She approached cautiously, holding her breath; afraid to look – yet needing to know. With pounding heart she moved forward to where a hand cart had been left in the middle of the floor; out of place, violating the purity of the holy chapel. Whatever lay upon the cart had been concealed with a piece of course hessian cloth.

The stillness unnerved her; the grey-cloaked figure watching silently from the shadows, the soles of her boots echoing loudly in her ears.

With trembling fingers she slowly pulled back the covering, her breath catching painfully in her throat at the sight of what lay beneath. Thrown like a common thief, naked and irreverently into a cart, was the despoiled corpse of her beloved.

She had only moments; even now she could hear the clinking of their spades as the monks were digging hastily at the floor tiles in the choir; this was to be his resting place, with as much honour and dignity as the Grey Friars could afford him.

Scores of deep wounds and lesions punctured and mutilated his body, staining the skin a hideous black and green and emitting a malodorous smell that nauseated her. His slender arms, lacerated and bludgeoned, were tied at the wrists, bitten raw by the harsh, frayed rope still attached. Hair matted with congealed blood from mortal wounds to his head brushed his face, and the once beautiful eyes were now closed in death.

Was this the man whom she had loved with an intense passion for as long as she could remember? Had it only been four days since she had held him in her arms and felt the warmth of his breath and the beating of his heart? How could this cold, lifeless form be hers?

An unbearable pain fired up from deep inside her and a torrent of anguish and rage engulfed her. Tormenting sobs racked her body as her tears poured forth in sorrow. Startled by the sound of the weeping woman, a young monk left his duties and went across to the cart. In wretched helplessness he stood beside her.

I have heard it said that he was a good man and loved by many, he whispered, and after placing a comforting hand upon the woman’s trembling shoulder the monk returned to the shadows.

York

January 1461

The road leading up to the Micklegate had long since become a quagmire with the endless trampling of foot, hoof and wheel. Alfred joined the press of pedlars, merchants, common peasantry and beggars that surged towards the gate into the city. He was jostled on either side by horse-drawn carts and great lumbering oxen. A thread of nervous excitement ran through the crowd as it cajoled and shuffled forward, the whispering, warbling and babbling rising to a voluble drone. Torches blazing high on the city walls caught the shimmer of rain as it spat down out of the murky twilight and here the stench of human habitation clung to the damp air.

Alfred could not get within reach of the gate and several times his horse shied nervously as a stray dog or pig flitted between its legs. At last he gave up his fight against the jostling masses and turning his horse about ploughed his way back through the crowd.

At first he thought that it was another dog coming too close to its hooves that caused his horse to baulk but as the small figure scampered away and slipped in the rain-sodden mud, Alfred could see that it was not a dog but a child. He slid down from the horse and scooped up the tiny form before it could be trampled upon.

Holding the child under his arm as he would a sack and leading the horse, Alfred managed to weave a path through the now thinning crowd. Reaching an area of open ground he set the whimpering figure down onto the grass. It was a boy of no more than eight years. His thin, tear-stained face was smeared with dirt, his tunic was torn and his skinny legs were barely covered by his tattered hose. His unshod feet were blistered and grazed and his whole body trembled violently.

Alfred squatted down beside the boy. Where is your mother? he asked. The child gave no reply.

Where then is your father? Are you alone? Alfred persisted. Still there was no response and the man sighed impatiently.

Just then a little girl appeared at Alfred’s side and laid a tiny hand upon his shoulder and stared down curiously at the shivering figure. Her grey woollen dress hung in a cobweb of holes about her thin ankles and two battered boots, encasing her tiny feet, were blotched with grime.

Come along, Christiana. The boy must have a home here about. He will fare well enough. We need to find lodgings by nightfall. Come now.

The tall, broad-shouldered man stood and went back to his horse where it was grazing contentedly on the wet grass and waited to lift his daughter back into the saddle. He turned to see that the girl was not following him.

He is very cold, Father, she called to him. We cannot leave him here or he will go frozen or else be taken by goblins. She shuddered at the thought. Alfred sighed wearily; maybe it would do no harm to watch over the boy for one night. Removing his heavy woollen cloak he returned to the child and wrapped it about his thin shoulders.

There were now three of them on the horse as it picked its way along the stony road going westward. Alfred was cold as well as hungry since he had parted with his cloak. As they rounded the next bend in the road he was immensely relieved to see the candlelit casements of a wayside inn.

There were many guests at the hostelry that night but room enough for the three weary travellers. Alfred had a fair supply of groats and pennies in his coin purse but he would still have to be careful. A night’s lodging was, however, an unavoidable expense.

They sat at the long trestle tables in the hall eating a hot pottage of bacon and beans. The boy was stuffing huge chunks of hard rye bread into his mouth. Piece after piece he shovelled in hungrily until Alfred reached across the table and gently removed the bread from his fingers. Have a care, lad. If you carry on like that you will bring it all back up again and that will be a waste of my money, will it not? he said, chuckling.

Later, after the tables had been cleared and the guests were settling down on the straw-covered floor, Alfred stretched his tired legs and watched the children. The boy was still shivering despite the heat from a roaring fire but Christiana had snuggled up to him, wrapping her arms around his shaking body in an effort to warm him. Alfred smiled. This daughter of his was such a sweet-natured child and so like her mother. She had the look of her mother too with her large gentle eyes and abundance of raven curls.

Presently Alfred addressed the boy. So, lad, what name do you have and why were you out alone in the thick of winter? The child sat in silence. Alfred sighed resignedly but his daughter took up the challenge.

My name is Christiana and Father is called Alfred. What name do you have? Drawing away from him slightly and tilting her head to one side she studied the boy. In the firelight she could see that his hair was brown like the curlew that called out across the dales and his face would be pleasing to the eye if only he could smile. His eyes, when he looked at her, were the colour of hazelnuts. After a moment or two of thought she announced. You can be my brother if you want. I do not have any brothers or sisters, do I, Father?

Alfred’s face was at once the image of panic and surprise and he was completely lost for words when just then the boy spoke for the first time.

William, he said. I am called William. He sniffed as a spate of tears began to trickle down his grimy face as though the utterance of his own name should bring to mind some memory too awful to contemplate.

Alfred, in his rather clumsy manner, shuffled closer to the boy and wrapped a thick-set arm around him, almost hiding him from view.

Now there, lad. Do not weep. You just sit there and tell us everything when you are ready.

Several sniffs and coughs later and William was ready. My father is a soldier. He went away at Christmastide and he has not yet come back. I left the village to look for him; I did not know what else to do. He stopped speaking and stared into the flames dancing in the hearth.

And where is your mother? Alfred asked gently.

I have no mother. ’Tis just father and me. He never lets me go to battles with him. I’m always sick when he kills the pig and so he says I’d be no use on the battlefield. I can fight when I’m a man, he says. He always does come home… His small voice trailed off and he hung his head sadly. After a while he took a deep breath and continued. I saw the heads on the gate. They were real heads with lots of blood and eyes that stood out like a pig’s on a platter. One of them had a paper hat on like a crown. The boy’s eyes glistened as he recalled the macabre scene.

They sat in silence listening to the murmurings of the sleeping and the crackle and spit of the fire. Then William’s voice whispered into Alfred’s ear, That was not my father’s head on the gate, was it?

The burly man drew the boy closer to him and answered softly, Nay, lad. I am sure it was not.

So that was what all the commotion had been about, thought Alfred. The severed heads of noble Yorkist prisoners publicly displayed by the victorious Lancastrians as trophies of the battle fought at nearby Wakefield. Like as not the head that wore the crown would have been Richard, Duke of York and Protector of the Realm. He slumped back against the hard wall with a sleeping child cradled in each arm and thought back on the recent events that had brought him to this place.

The acrid smell of burning in the chill morning air, the billow of black smoke rising like dragon breath into the pearly dawn sky; the screams of the villagers, panic-stricken and fearful, running for the surrounding trees in the mayhem of rider-less horses and stampeding cattle.

Power hungry and drunk to the point of insanity on the free-flowing ale, hordes of victorious soldiers terrorised the countryside in the aftermath of battle. They saw it as their right wherever they went to loot, burn and maim, more often than not their actions sanctioned by their liege lord. It was a common enough occurrence in these troubled times. The blacksmith and his daughter had been fortunate enough to escape with their lives let alone the tools of his trade, crammed into a leather bag and slung over the back of his horse.

Alfred’s heart burned with resentment as he thought about the home he had been forced to leave behind, burned to the ground. He and his daughter had lived in a one-roomed shack adjoining the smithy, shared with their black Dales pony and, until last autumn, a fat snuffling pig, the salted carcass of which was hanging from a hook in the rafters. It had not been much but Alfred was content and trade had been going well enough for him to consider building a separate dwelling and enlarging the smithy. He would have probably taken on an apprentice too. Now they had nothing but a horse, a bag of tools and a handful of coins; they were homeless in the bleak of winter. All because the nobility of the realm had nothing better to do than engage in bloody battle for England’s crown. He sighed bitterly and kicked a horn cup that lay on the floor with his outstretched foot.

In the dim greyness of the winter dawn Alfred sat on a wooden bench in the courtyard supping ale. The children were still asleep inside. Life at the inn was slow to commence; many travellers reluctant to venture out into the bleak world were still huddled around the dying embers of the fire or else taking their ease in the courtyard. Alfred’s bench was by a stall where several horses, his own included, were stabled. As he sat trying to clear his head of sleep he became aware of a muted conversation nearby.

What is to be done now that the Duke of York’s head and that of his son sit on Micklegate? Is our cause now lost? whispered one man.

The Duke of York has more sons. His eldest, the Earl of March, proves worthy, returned another.

There followed a brief silence when Alfred could hear only the stamping of hooves and the jingling of harnesses. The second man spoke again. England needs a king, a real king. Not a weak-kneed sop led from the nose by a woman. There will be no stopping the bloodshed else.

Hush, man. Think on what you are saying.

I speak only the truth and well you know it. You mark these words for my Lord Neville will…

Alfred heard no more as the conversation ended upon the arrival of a serving girl calling the inn to break their night-time fast. He shook his head. More trouble brewing, he thought. Well he had troubles enough of his own, one in the shape of a small boy. What was to be done with him? Come to that, what was he to do about his own future?

On his return to the hall Alfred found William sitting on the damp straw huddled inside the girl’s cloak. Christiana was feasting heartily on bread and ale.

William feels unwell, Father. He will not eat his bread, she announced. Alfred knelt down beside the boy and stared into his ashen face.

Well, little man, did I not tell you not to eat so much last night? he chided gently.

William shook his head and whispered, My arms and legs ache and I have a great pain in my head.

Too long out in the cold, boy, ’tis all. You will be well soon enough. Alfred ruffled William’s tousled locks of brown hair.

Sometime later, having supped and paid their due, Alfred and the children were back on the road.

Where is it that we are going, Father? Christiana asked as they swayed gently atop the horse. Alfred wished he knew. He was not sure that York would be the best place to go just now. It would not be easy to find work in rural Yorkshire either as most villages would already have an established farrier. But he would have to try – or starve.

He gave his daughter what he hoped was a reassuring embrace and urged the horse forward. They headed in a north-westerly direction, following the River Ouse. Their sturdy mare picked her way over fallen branches and roots along the rutted tracks meandering over the wild Yorkshire land. Hour upon hour they travelled without sight or sound of another soul, the damp drizzle clinging to vale and hill seeping into their clothing and wetting their skin.

Alfred became increasingly concerned for the boy. His cheeks were flushed scarlet and he was hardly able to keep himself upright in the saddle. It was only Christiana’s arms fastened around him that prevented him from tumbling to the ground. Alfred was diligently searching the area for signs of a shelter when William began to groan. Alfred looked down anxiously at the boy and saw that, despite the pinpricked flush of his cheeks, the colour had drained from his face. Alfred barely had time to hoist William from the saddle before he vomited violently, drenching his own scant rags and Alfred’s already work-blackened tunic.

The blacksmith sat in despair on the roadside cursing the soldiers who had caused him to be out in this bleak wilderness without shelter, regretting already his weakness at burdening them with a sick child who meant nothing to them. Christiana held the boy’s hand as he sat and retched pitifully between sobs, his head hanging between his bent knees.

Would the boy ever stop throwing up, Alfred thought ungraciously. He stood up and moved away a little, rubbing his tired eyes. He thought at first that he had imagined it, but no, his eyes had not deceived him. A small group of white-robed friars was walking two abreast along a narrow track that crossed their path a few yards ahead. They had, it seemed, caught the attention of one of the brothers.

Good day to you, friend, he called, walking towards them with hands hidden within the voluminous sleeves of his robe. ’Tis not a good day to be out on the road, he remarked, looking down at the two children. Allow me to be of assistance. Without waiting for a reply he hailed one of the monks standing quietly on the path.

Brother Clement, have you any peppermint about you?

A young monk stepped out of the rank and shuffled over, blushing painfully.

Come, come, boy. The child has more need of it than you. The older monk snapped his fingers and held out his hand, whereupon the younger man drew out a phial from the folds of his robe and handed it to his superior. As Brother Clement returned to his companions the monk offered an explanation. The good brother has a sensitive stomach, shall we say, but our Lord Abbot insisted that he make this journey today. We have to take provisions to the leper house of Saint Giles whatever the weather. The spirit must conquer the flesh. A mischievous smile spread across his face and he lowered his voice. He did not think that I knew about the peppermint.

Crouching down and supporting William’s head the monk coaxed the mixture into his mouth. There, that should help ease your vomiting, young man.

Many thanks, brother, Alfred said gratefully.

Where are you bound in such foul weather? the monk asked, returning the empty phial to the scrip at his belt.

Alfred chortled wearily. God only knows. I’m a blacksmith by trade and homeless, looking for work.

We are returning to Jervaulx Abbey and our doors are open to you, at least for a while. This boy is too sick to be without shelter.

Alfred’s heart lifted. He had heard of the Cistercian abbey nestled in Wensleydale along the River Ure. It was renowned throughout the dales for its large stables of well-bred horses. Alfred accepted the offer of hospitality with a grateful heart. This might be just the chance he was looking for.

Well into the afternoon the small family of travellers with their holy escort progressed deeper into the dales. Alfred kept the boy under his cloak, snuggled against his broad chest. The fever had a firm grip on William now, his forehead afire and his cheeks crimson.

Jervaulx Abbey

Yorkshire

January 1461

It was dusk when they drew up at the great stone archway that formed the entrance to the abbey. A young novice was summoned to tend the horse and Alfred and the children were led to the guest hall where several other travellers had taken refuge. A fire roared in the hearth and the straw on the flagstones was clean and dry.

Leaving his daughter curled up on the straw, Alfred, carrying William in his arms, followed a monk through a side door and out into the cloisters. They crossed an inner courtyard and entered the infirmary. Several fat wax candles flooded the room with light and the air was thick with the smell of herbs. Brother Infirmarir, red-cheeked and stocky, sat dozing by the fireside. Apart from a few aged monks no one else occupied the raised pallets.

Alfred placed William down on the nearest empty mattress as his escort nudged the infirmarir awake.

Your son has a high fever, remarked the monk sleepily, placing a wrinkled hand upon William’s brow. And his feet need attention, he remarked, tut-tutting his disapproval at the boy’s badly blistered feet. Alfred saw no gain in attempting to correct the monk’s natural assumption that he was the boy’s father and stood awkwardly aside as William’s sodden tunic and hose were removed. After a while Alfred left William in the hands of the monk and returned to the hall to eat.

After sharing a meal of boiled turnips from a rough wooden bowl and a chunk of course rye bread the trestles and boards were moved to the side of the hall and folk began to settle down for the night. Alfred lay back on a straw pallet with his hands behind his head staring up at the fireside shadows dancing provocatively on the beams overhead. The warmth of the fire and the peaceful murmurings of his companions lulled him into a restful sleep.

Sometime later Alfred woke to the unfamiliar sound of chanting in the distance. As he lay there trying to remember where he was, he realised that it must be about the hour of midnight and the monks were making their way to the chapel for matins. The fire had died to a faint red glow and all around him were the sounds of snoring and mumbling from sleeping bodies. He sat up and looked across to his daughter. By the dim light he could see that she was awake and staring up at him from her straw pallet.

Father, where is William? she whispered.

He is in the infirmary, child. The monks are looking after him.

I want to see him, she urged.

Alfred remained silent. He knew that they should not leave the guest hall but to his surprise he found that he too wanted to see the boy again – especially if the worst should happen. Maybe if they were quiet they could creep across while the monks were at their prayers.

You must promise to be very, very quiet then, Alfred whispered at last. Christiana nodded and stood up. She stooped again quickly to pick up something that lay in the straw beside her.

Alfred made for the side door that led to the cloisters, the same one he had taken earlier. Cautiously he lifted the latch – it was open. The cold night air took their breath as they stepped outside. The moon was high in a star-filled sky and flooded the courtyard with its silver light. Silently Alfred led Christiana by the hand across frost-coated cobbles. The singing from across the courtyard continued to reach their ears.

Loud snoring from the warmth of the fireside indicated the presence of the portly old infirmarir keeping soporific watch over his wards. Moonlight pouring in from a high window bathed the small prostrate figure on the bed in silver. Christiana let go of her father’s hand and walked over to William.

He looks like an angel, she breathed softly.

Alfred’s heart almost missed a beat, fearing that the boy had already lost his fight for life. He knelt down beside the bed and felt William’s forehead; it was hot and damp. The fever still has him, child, he said.

As he looked down at the small stricken face, Alfred’s mind was drawn back six months earlier to when Mary lay on a mattress in the smithy gripped by a raging fever. At first he had failed to notice his wife’s condition for all his grief was being poured out on the tiny, perfectly formed body of his stillborn son cradled in his arms. The small room echoed with prayers and incantations of the village womenfolk as they tried to revive his wife with their herbal remedies and superstitious ritual. Finally the priest was called in to perform the last rites and within hours Alfred had lost his beloved wife and a much longed for son. A tiny wooden cross in the village churchyard was all that marked their passing and the blacksmith was left to raise his seven-year-old daughter alone, with no female kin to call upon.

He drew his hands together over the bedcover and still on his knees began to pray in quiet murmurings that God would spare the boy. As he knelt there a notion stirred within him, a desire to adopt the boy and raise him as his own. From the corner of his eye he noticed Christiana bring something out from beneath her cloak and place it under William’s hand as it lay limp on the bed. By the time his prayer had ended Alfred’s mind was made up: given that the boy endured the night he would take him as his own.

As they tiptoed back across the courtyard towards the warmth of the hall Alfred looked down at the little girl holding his hand. It would be good for his daughter to have a companion of her own age, he thought, smiling.

Alfred went alone to the infirmary early the following morning, leaving Christiana still asleep in the hall. His footsteps were slow and heavy as he walked the short distance across the cobbles. His heart trembled as he opened the door to the infirmary.

He hardly dared to believe what he had prayed for – but there was William propped up on cushions looking a little flushed but with his eyes open. All trace of the fever had gone. Alfred could not contain his relief. He bounded over to the boy and clapping a huge hand on William’s shoulder, exclaimed, Well, son, you are looking better I see.

Better, yes, but not yet recovered. Brother Infirmarir lingered behind Alfred. I do not know where it is you are bound, he continued, but this child is not well enough to travel in this weather. The abbot has graciously allowed you to stay a little longer until he has recovered strength enough to continue your journey.

Alfred nodded gratefully. A few days as guests at the monastery would do them no harm and maybe give him chance to weigh the situation in the stables. Things might just be going his way at last. Christiana was given permission to visit her brother later that day.

Look what I found this morning, William said as she came rushing in. He drew out a little carved wooden horse from underneath the blanket. An angel must have left it in the night.

Christiana looked quickly at her father and giggled. "Well it was mine but now it is yours, brother." She emphasised the last word before leaning across the mattress and planting a small kiss on the top of William’s brown thatch of hair. Alfred smiled sadly. He had carved that little horse for his daughter in an attempt to ease the grief of her mother’s death. It was her most treasured possession.

As William convalesced Alfred busied himself in the abbey stables, lending a hand with the shoeing of their magnificent horses. He also learned a thing or two about equine herbal remedies, something the monks were most knowledgeable about, but not too keen to share.

They did, however, show him their breeding stallions; fine, sleek creatures, pampered like spoilt princes. Alfred would have given much to remain here amongst the brethren as a lay worker but alas, the entire place ran as efficiently as a skep full of bees; from the initiated white robed monks to the skinny young lads who pumped the bellows, all seemed to have his place and no room for any other. Even with his skills as a blacksmith Alfred was hard pressed to find enough to do at the stable yard each day and found himself lending a hand to the elderly cellarer, unable to move some of his heavy barrels and sacks unaided.

After High Mass was sung in the chapel Christiana helped Brother Hosteller to sweep the guest hall and scatter clean rushes on the floor. The grasses here in the monastery had a much sweeter fragrance than the threshings used on the floor of the inn, she noticed.

After dinner, when the monks took rest from their labours, some of the novices were allowed into the outer courtyard where the lay people could congregate. Christiana would join them and sitting on a bench against the wall for shelter from the wind she would watch their comings and goings.

One afternoon, when the sun had dispersed the dismal grey of winter, a young man came to her bench and sat down wearily next to her, slamming a clay board and wooden writing stick down beside him. Christiana peered up at him, a little wary of his temper. He was slightly built with bony arms protruding through his coarse tunic. He had a mass of very dark unruly curls that sprang like coils from his head with no hint of a tonsure as worn by most of the other monks.

Why have you got so much hair? Christiana suddenly blurted out in her childlike manner. The young man turned his head to look down at the girl beside him, surprise lighting up his blue eyes, his ill humour forgotten.

’Tis because I am not yet a proper monk. I am still learning and it is hard work.

Well I like your hair, it looks like mine. You should keep it. What is it that you are doing?

The young man sighed. Latin, French! I am behind in my studies and have to do extra work.

I can help you if you like, the child offered innocently.

The man laughed, a little unkindly. You are a child and a girl. What help could you possibly give to me?

Christiana was not to be put off. My mother could read a little and she was showing me before she died. Father always said it was a waste of time.

So it came to be that as Alfred worked to repay the monks’ hospitality, his daughter spent the short afternoons in the public courtyard with Dominic, learning the skill of reading and writing. William left the infirmary after a few days, his still blistered feet smothered in balm and wrapped in cloth boots. He would sit in the courtyard with Christiana but he had little interest in the strange sounding words she mumbled with the young novice as they bent their heads over their clay boards.

One afternoon a cold sheet of rain blew in from the dales, drenching any poor soul who happened to be outdoors. Dominic took his clay board and sat at a carrel in the cloisters. Christiana and William wandered into the large stone dairy where the monks made the crumbly white cheese from ewes’ milk. It was hardly warmer inside but at least it was drier. The children sat on wooden stools and watched the monks turning and sniffing the maturing cheeses; there was little supply of milk in the winter so not much fresh cheese could be made.

A lay servant scurried in through the open doorway, rain dripping from the end of his pointed nose.

Oswald has arrived, Brother Philip, from the castle, for the cheeses, he announced with a watery sniff. He’s in the hall drying off. How many shall he take?

Brother Philip looked up from the wooden table, where he was coaxing a semi-sodden lump into a roundel, a spatula poised in each hand. Eight. No, make that ten. If we have snow it could be a while before he comes again. I will note the ledger. Laying aside his spatulas he disappeared into a storeroom, the dripping servant following behind.

Later that day, when the rain had eased off a little, William and Christiana helped to load up the mule with the large cheeses wrapped in butter cloth together with several pots of abbey honey and watched as Oswald and an armed escort rode away.

Finest cheese is that, made right here in Wensleydale, remarked the servant proudly to the two children as the retreating mule squelched across the courtyard with its tail swishing furiously.

The day soon came, too soon for Alfred, when Brother Infirmarir declared William recovered enough to travel. The problem of their future could be shirked no longer. The abbot had been unable to provide Alfred with any regular work, a bitter disappointment to the blacksmith. This night was to be their last in the monastery and tomorrow at dawn they would be back on the road.

The work at the stables was finished for the day and so Alfred ambled across the darkened inner courtyard to the storeroom below ground, to see if Brother Cellarer had need of his help before taking to his bed. The aged monk spent a good deal of time here amongst the sacks and barrels where it was dry and sheltered and there were plenty of soft resting places for old bones.

A concoction of odours assailed the nose on entering the underground lair of the cellarer; wheat, corn, hessian sacking, salted fish and mulled wine. A few tiny candles burned in their holders here and there, casting an eerie light in the gloom. Alfred could discern at once that the old monk had sipped a goblet or two of the abbot’s best wine.

Alfred, my boy. Sit you down and keep company with a wizened old monk. He indicated a thick pile of sackcloth beside him on the bench. Alfred stepped over the earthenware jars that dotted the floor and took a seat beside the old man.

Ye be off on ye travels soon, I ’spect, the old man stated, with slurred speech.

Aye, on the morrow, replied Alfred with a sigh.

The boy recovered now then?

Indeed he has and I thank God, Alfred replied and meant it.

Where you off to then?

I wish I knew. Alfred could not hide the note of anxiety in his voice. I need to find a place where there is plenty of work for a blacksmith. Trouble is there are just too many of us about.

Middleham, my boy, hissed the monk.

Middleham?

Aye, castle a little way farther up the dales. You’ve heard of the Neville family, surely? The monk looked suspiciously round at the barrels and pots watching them from the corners of the room.

Alfred nodded. Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick; a great magnate of the north, due in part, it was said, to his fortuitous marriage to a Beauchamp heiress.

The monk leaned over to Alfred and whispered in his ear, Things be brewing up there so I’ve heard tell. Anyway, lad, blacksmiths don’t just shoe horses do they? They forge weapons for battle and mend tools for masons. They are doing some fine building work up at the castle right now.

This wrinkly old monk quite took Alfred aback. He was rather worldly wise for one who had probably lived secluded in a monastery for most of his life. Still, Alfred considered, he might just have something there. Why should he not make use of the business of war for a change? If he could make a living supplying weapons for men foolish enough to addle each other’s wits then why not? If it had not been for a drunken troop of soldiers, he reminded himself, he would not be in this situation in the first place.

Where is this Middleham Castle then? he asked after a while.

North-west, lad. Follow the lie of the River Ure. ’Tis less than half a day’s journey.

The bell rang then for compline, signalling also that supper was ready in the hall for the guests. Alfred bid the old man farewell and left him to sleep off his excesses. Perhaps his absence would be overlooked in chapel this evening – he was an old man after all.

It was with a much lighter spirit that Alfred rode away from the abbey at daybreak the following morning. At last he knew where he was bound. He had great cause to rejoice in William’s recovery too and the abbey treasury was a little more swollen upon their departure.

Middleham Castle

Yorkshire

Early 1461

Alfred looked out across the undulating plains of Wensleydale, bare and forlorn in winter repose. Way on yonder slopes a few sheep grazed, their gaunt bodies just visible in the sombre light, their mournful bleats echoing through the dales.

Below, cradled in the bosom of Wensleydale, a stone fortress of immense proportion squatted squarely on the landscape. The vast rectangular keep and regimented towers that linked the curtain wall shimmered gold and rose in the last light of the dying day. Stretching out to the east was the bailey, enclosed and protected by its own strong stone wall. Circling the castle was a deep and wide moat lapping gently at the base of steep grassy embankments giving the impression that the whole fortress was afloat upon a green island.

The thought of living and working within those impregnable walls gave Alfred a sense of exhilaration. That castle represented power and wealth on such a scale the humble blacksmith could only dream of. Under the protection of the Earl of Warwick he and his children would eat well, sleep soundly and want for nothing in exchange for hard work and loyalty.

Alfred could see the long white road coming from the gatehouse in the east and running like a ribbon down the hillside. After a while he urged the horse on across the heath in its direction.

Are we going in there? William asked, at once alert. Soldiers live in castles, don’t they? Will my father be there?

I cannot say, lad, Alfred replied, patting the boy’s head.

The closer they came to the castle the higher the walls seemed and Alfred became increasingly apprehensive. How would he go about asking for work? What if the monk had been wrong and there was in truth little enough work? He was strong and healthy, which should go in his favour – having two small children in tow would probably not.

A steady stream of people was moving in and out of the gate under the watchful eye of the armed guard. Carts loaded with wood or animal fodder rumbled up the road and every now and again their contents would be poked or prodded by a soldier with a spear before being allowed to pass through.

The blacksmith’s sturdy horse had almost reached its turn at the gate and Alfred was about to try his luck when the sound of cantering hooves could be heard from the foot of the hill. A small troop of soldiers was riding towards the gate, scattering the crowd as it approached. Alfred reined his horse onto the grassy verge to watch with interest. As he waited for the group to pass he noticed that the rider at the fore was having some difficulty with his mount. The big brown courser was rearing and prancing, obviously in some pain. Before reaching the gate the rider was obliged to dismount, releasing a volley of curses at the unfortunate animal, who was now limping miserably.

Alfred could not let such an opportune moment pass and in an instant he was off his horse and grabbing his tool bag to walk over. My name is Alfred Smith, he called. I am a blacksmith by trade. If you allow me I can help.

The man eyed him suspiciously for a moment and then nodded his assent. For all Alfred knew this was the earl himself for he wore a tabard bearing the Warwick coat of arms and his cloak was of the finest woven wool. He would have to keep all his nerve if he was to make use of the opportunity fate had placed into his hands. He also had to play to an audience of onlookers who had gathered around them and haste was prudent as the light was disappearing fast.

He caught the reins of the animal and beckoned one of the bystanders to steady the horse’s head; putting his own hand onto the quivering flank he ran his fingers gently down to the hoof, held gingerly in the air, talking soothingly to the horse all the while. Grasping the leg gently but firmly in his steady hand he took his pliers and carefully caught the end of a nail and slowly drew it out from where it had been embedded in the frog of the hoof. This is a badly fitted shoe, he said, looking up at the man. See, the nail has been run through at the wrong angle.

The other man’s face turned scarlet with rage as he bellowed, That incompetent ass, Jankin. That drunken bungler. He snatched the reins of the horse and stormed off through the gatehouse, calling out behind him, You, Alfred Smith, follow me.

The blacksmith looked around him in bewilderment at the amused faces. One of the guards smiled and spoke in an aside to him. Looks like you’ve made an impression on the steward, Smith, and old Jankin is about to get the boot at last.

Alfred led his horse under the great arch and into the bailey. He followed the steward as he marched in a rage, along a wide road, stopping only when they reached the stables and smithies veiled in shadow at the far end.

Where’s Jankin? demanded the steward sternly. The stable lads looked around nervously in the direction of one of the stalls. The steward strode up and pulled open the door. An inebriated form toppled out in a heap onto the cobbles. He looked up with bleary eyes at the man towering above him.

You shod my horse this morning and damn nearly crippled him, he raged. Last week one of the earl’s best horses was burned by a red hot shoe. You have had your last chance, now get out!

The poor blacksmith was far too much under the influence of ale to protest at his fate and was hardly aware of the hands that lifted him roughly and dragged him down the road towards the gatehouse. The steward called out a parting retort, ’Tis well for you, old man that the earl is away or else you would have been flogged within an inch of your life.

Alfred stood silently by as the steward brought his temper under control. He looked shrewdly at Alfred, noting his muscular physique. He looked across at the two children, too afraid of the man to even move, clinging to the saddle of their horse.

These two yours? the steward asked with a nod in their direction.

Aye, they are, Alfred replied firmly. But they are good children. The boy is ready to learn the blacksmith’s trade. He waited expectantly.

The steward nodded. The Earl of Warwick keeps a large stable here at Middleham and an army of masons on site for he has a mind to make the castle grander. There is plenty of work here for a good blacksmith. If you think you are up to the task then Jankin’s work is yours. Unless, of course, you are here on another matter?

Alfred was almost speechless and not a little embarrassed. He stared up the darkening road at the retreating soldiers and the pathetic bundle of humanity slung between them. Well, he thought, one man’s loss is another’s gain. I am most grateful for the work and am pleased to offer my allegiance to the Earl of Warwick, Alfred said, after a while. And to you, my lord? he added bowing low.

Sir John Conyers, Steward of Middleham, replied the man.

Christiana had spent the morning making the room adjoining the smithy into a home for her father, her brother and herself. This dwelling was bigger than the one they used to live in; the walls were thicker and sturdily built with a roof of stone.

She moved about arranging and rearranging the few scant objects left by the previous occupant and kneaded the stained mattress to spread out the straw. After her labours of domesticity her father said she could wander around the bailey as long as she kept out of trouble and did not cross the wooden bridge to the castle. That was where the grand folk lived and it was no place for her. William’s feet were still sore and he had no mind to wander about, content to sit and watch Alfred’s activities at the forge.

The bailey was a vast place, easily the extent of her village, with buildings of every description: from dairy to brew house, to storehouses and barns. Christiana drew her cloak about her and walked around with the natural curiosity of a child. She stopped to look at the ducks paddling in the muddy puddles and the skinny hens that pecked and scratched in the soil. A bony grey and white kitten twined itself around her legs, meowing hungrily and she stooped to pat its matted fur.

Everywhere she looked there were people at work just as in any village. There were carpenters, fletchers, candle makers and washerwomen. Carts piled high with wood, sacks and barrels clattered to and fro across the bridge to the forbidden castle.

Most of the buildings were clustered along the northern side of the bailey and way across to the southern end was a large grassed area. Here the men-at-arms were going through their drill, despite the chill of the day, the captain’s voice booming out his orders across the open space. She stood and watched them for a while, admiring their brightly coloured livery and the bear and ragged staff that marked the retainers of the Earl of Warwick.

Facing the castle and to her right side Christiana could see timber scaffolding growing, it seemed, out of the curtain wall. The keep also had a dressing of scaffolding and she could see men walking along planks of wood. They were dragging huge blocks of stone along and lifting them on pulleys up to the very top of the roof. The builders looked very small and she hoped that they would not fall off.

There was just one more part of the bailey left to see. It looked to be a garden way over in the far corner beyond the drill field. She took a path that skirted the grass and entered through a small wicker gate. She could sense at once that this place was unlike any other she had seen thus far. The rest of the bailey’s function was purely practical, existing to supply the needs of the earl and his household. This place was tranquil and pleasing to the eye, a quiet sanctuary. She hesitated at the gate, unsure of whether she should proceed. Gravelled pathways meandered around box hedges, flower beds and shrubs, at present bare and colourless but holding the promise of colour and warmth under a summer sun. Benches had been placed around an elaborately carved dovecote where the residents bobbed and cooed in the cool air.

Tucked away against the outer wall was a cottage with small windows and the typical stone roof where a plume of smoke curled upwards to the grey sky. There appeared to be outhouses attached to the main dwelling, including a covered midden and large water barrels standing to attention on one side. Spreading around the front and sides of the building was a very neat and regimented herb garden.

Curiosity was a natural part of the little girl’s being and so, stifling her feeling of apprehension, she began to walk along the path towards the cottage, regarding the form and style of the garden as she went.

As she came closer she could see that the wooden door was ajar. At once and without warning a woman appeared in the doorway and caught sight of her. Christiana would have scampered like a cat caught with an eel pie but the woman called out to her. And who, pray, do we have here then?

The child stood looking up at the woman. She was round like a barrel with a leather cord around her middle from which hung an assortment of little pouches. Wisps of fuzzy greying hair had escaped her linen coif and framed her plump rosy-cheeked face. She stood with hands resting upon her ample hips, giving her an air of authority.

Finally the girl found voice to speak. Christiana, my lord, she answered, bowing as she had seen her father do to John Conyers.

At once the woman let out a bellow of laughter, her pink cheeks glowing crimson.

Come here, girl, she commanded, still chuckling. Christiana did as she was told.

Now first off I’m no lord, and no lady either come to that. Although my husband, William, God rest his soul, did hold the post of steward a few years back. She looked down at Christiana, who was staring at her aghast.

I am called Martha, the woman continued. You had best come inside and we will get better acquainted.

The inside of the cottage was nothing like Christiana had ever seen before; no dwelling in her village looked like this. Wooden trestles with boards bowing under the weight of earthenware bottles, jars, bowls, pans, flagons and vessels of many shapes and sizes ran round the walls. Under the tables were sacks and barrels, one near the door was filled with water, and the floor had a sprinkling of clean, dry strewing herbs. Bunches of dried herbs hung like overloaded grapevines from the low beams and a pungent, aromatic odour filled the air. Near the centre of the floor stood a small charcoal burner with a pan on top and something inside it was gurgling gently, sending a vapour upwards through a hole in the roof.

It looked very much like the infirmary at the monastery; it had the same smell. Christiana looked around to see if there were any sick people. There was a small door set in the far wall but it was closed. Perhaps they were in another room, she thought.

Do you live in this place? she asked curiously.

Of course I do, child, Martha replied. Now sit yourself down and take some ale. She produced a costrel and two horn cups into which she poured a dark, sweet, fruity smelling liquid. Go on, girl. ’Tis not poison. I brew it myself. The old woman smiled at Christiana’s reluctance to drink.

The girl took a sip and found the drink to be very pleasant and so took a little more. What do you do in here? she asked, sitting herself down upon a nearby stool.

I keep the herb garden to supply the kitchen and to make medicines for the earl and his household. So, are you going to tell me what you are doing here? I do not recall seeing you before.

No, I have just arrived with my father. My name is Christiana and we live in the smithy. Father is a blacksmith. Do you live here alone?

Martha drained her cup and smiled. I did have a husband until a few years back. Like I say, William was the steward and looked after the running of the castle. We lived up at the keep in those days.

You did! Christiana was awestruck. You lived in the castle? Why do you not live there now?

I was given this work when my William died. I learned the skill from my mother. It suits me just fine to live here. John Conyers is steward now.

My brother is called William, Christiana said cheerfully, suddenly recalling the fact that she had recently acquired a brother.

Indeed, Martha said, taking the empty cup from the girl. How would you like to work for me here in the herbarium? I could do with a little help – my bones are not getting any younger and someone will need to take over when I am gone.

Christiana thought about that for a while. But Father will need me to help in the smithy, she replied.

Martha looked surprised. But ’tis man’s work is that. Your brother will be helping his father, will he not?

Christiana nodded slowly. Yes, she supposed he would. She had not thought of that until now. William would be Father’s apprentice. I should like very much to come and work here if my father agrees, she replied politely.

That’s settled then, if your father agrees and the steward of course. But you can nowise work with me until you are cleaned up. Look at your rags, girl. Do you not have another dress?

Christiana blushed and looked down at her tatty mud-splattered dress and shook her head.

No matter, lass. I will see what can be done. Martha smiled and ruffled the child’s dark curls tenderly.

It was not long before Alfred and his young family began to settle down to their new life. It pleased him immensely that his daughter had found a woman willing to take her in hand and to teach her skills more suited to a girl than work in a smithy. He was pleasantly surprised when Christiana came home one day bearing two homespun dresses of brown wool, neatly made, and not only boots for herself but a pair for William also.

They ate well too, for the first time since the death of his wife. The earl’s table lacked for nothing and even the most modest meals were as good as a feast to the blacksmith. The soldiers and the servants who lived and worked in the bailey ate the leftovers from the high table served in their own hall adjacent to the brew house. Mostly the food was cold by the time it reached them but no one seemed to mind. The castle also had its own bakery in the bailey so all in all they wanted for nothing.

The Earl of Warwick had been out campaigning for the Yorkist cause long before Alfred arrived at Middleham, along with the greater part of his retinue and his best horses. Lack of horses to shoe and take care of was no problem to Alfred as there was always a steady supply of tools to mend and weapons to sharpen.

Middleham underwent vast alteration work in the year of Alfred’s arrival; there were extensions to the northern range of towers in the curtain wall, including a new northern entrance that would allow access to the castle from the village. The earl’s greatest architectural achievement, however, was the erection of an upper chamber over the great hall of the keep. With its rows of tall round-topped windows offering spectacular views over Wensleydale, the upper chamber would be a symbol of the earl’s status and power here in the north.

William grew stronger as the weeks passed. His thin limbs began to pad out with flesh and his skin took on a healthier glow. He worked hard and enthusiastically under Alfred’s guidance. He was eager to learn the smith’s trade and had a natural liking for horses and an instinctive understanding of their needs that made his training a joy.

As well as William, Alfred had a bellows boy to attend the fire and stoke it with charcoal and a portehache, the boy who did the fetching and carrying. Alfred had cause to thank God daily for his good fortune and prayed that England would soon settle her warring feuds and that peace could reign at last over the land.

There was only one thing that troubled Alfred, that being the occasions when he would catch William sitting alone on the stacks of straw in the stables. The boy would have a faraway look of melancholia in his eyes, quite lost in his own little world. Alfred guessed it was at these times the boy would be thinking of his natural father who had died in a battle he was too young to even understand. Alfred would ruffle William’s brown hair and leave him alone with his thoughts. He knew from experience that time alone could soothe the pain.

One morning Christiana sauntered into Martha’s cottage to find her mixing yet another herbal concoction.

What is that smell? the girl asked, wrinkling her nose and watching her mentor stir and pound the recipe with a wooden pestle.

Oil of bay leaves, sweet almond oil, stavesacre, tansy juice, centaury and salt of sulphur and not forgetting fat of an old hog, Martha replied without looking up.

For what?

A young page up at the castle has got head lice and we have to go and treat it.

We have? Christiana’s eyes lit up. "You mean me as well? I can go inside the castle?"

Martha laughed. Of course you, child. I have no other apprentice.

Christiana had trouble bridling her excitement as she trotted beside Martha along the road towards the castle. She had been given a sealed jar containing vinegar and held on to it tightly as they went up the green, passing the dairy and the fletchers’ hut and the bakery, where the smell of fresh baked bread floated deliciously on the morning air. As they neared the stables and smithies Christiana peered warily across the grass, expecting her father to come out and forbid her to cross the bridge.

There’ll be snow later, Martha prophesied, looking upwards. Christiana followed her gaze to where grey-brown clouds hung ominously over the castle. They reached the wooden bridge that spanned the moat. Christiana took hold of Martha’s hand as they clattered across, pausing to look over the stone wall at a pair of swans gliding on the murky water below. Two armed sentries guarded the gatehouse but they let Martha through with a nod of recognition.

Once over the bridge and through the gatehouse Martha made her way across the inner courtyard towards the entrance into the great keep. An enclosed stone staircase ran along the side of the keep, another pair of sentries guarding the foot. Martha stated her business and was allowed to ascend. Christiana’s heart was pounding as she walked slowly up the stone steps through a gated archway. She was overawed by the magnitude of the building, even bigger now that she was this close.

They passed under a second gated archway, also guarded, and reached the top of the staircase. A final archway led into an antechamber, a small room with one high window and a desk at which sat an elderly usher. He looked up from his ledger with a smile as Martha entered with the girl hiding behind her skirts.

You are expected. My Lady Anne and the children are in the great chamber, he announced. Godwin here will escort you. He spoke to the young groom who was standing idly by the round-headed doorway leading into the great hall.

The room into which Christiana walked was spacious and very grand. Set into the wall by which they had entered were three large round-topped windows through which the feeble winter light trickled. Rows of trestles and boards were set hard against two walls and a long oak table raised on a platform ran the