“George will win the day.” Kate sounded confident.
It was true that George was steady and deliberate and usually hit what he aimed at, but Thomas, although he could be unpredictable, excelled at the things he enjoyed. Since he liked to pretend he was Robin Hood, he practiced shooting with a bow and arrow more often than George did.
“An embroidered handkerchief and a cloak pin on Thomas,” I said, naming two items we both had upon our persons. Kate nodded her agreement and we settled ourselves on the bench, our needlework in our laps.
Kate industriously stitched at a shirt, but I left my needle stuck in the smock I was hemming. Both garments would be given to the poor when they were finished. It was a good cause, but on such a splendid day I was not inclined to keep my head bent over my stitches.
An oak tree just beginning to shed its leaves shaded our bench. I caught one of the bright bits of foliage as it drifted down, admiring its perfection, and breathed deeply of the salty air. Cowling Castle had been built at the edge of a marsh.
The raucous cry of a gull was clearly audible, even over the shouts and laughter of my siblings. Instead of watching my brothers, I contemplated the sky and was rewarded not only by the sight of several gulls, but also by a glimpse of a redwing. Redwings migrated to Kent every autumn but only stayed until the holly berries were gone, just like field-fares.
A shout of “Well shot!” from John pulled my attention back to the butts. I’d been bird-watching longer than I’d realized. Thomas had already won the first match.
“Wretched boy,” Kate grumbled as she handed over my winnings. “George is older. He should have won.”
“Does that mean you think I will always surpass you?”
Kate laughed. “I’ll wager it does.” Before I knew what she intended, she had left the bench to advance on the butts and seize George’s bow. “Bess will show you how it should be done,” she said, “and a three-penny piece says she can hit the center of the target with her first arrow.”
“Done!” George sneered a little. “I say she’ll go wide of the mark.”
Never one to run from a challenge and confident of my ability to hit what I aimed at, I set aside my sewing and joined them. Archery is a skill that, once learned, is never forgotten. I took the bow, nocked the arrow, aimed with care, and took my best shot. I hit the target dead center. William would have been pleased. He’d taught me well.
“Oh, excellent!” Kate cried, clapping her hands.
In the spirit of the moment, I bent at the waist, sweeping the hand with the bow out to one side like a courtier’s bonnet.
“Girls curtsy,” John piped up. “Only boys bow.”
“That is because boys are too clumsy to manage a curtsy,” Kate shot back. “Girls are graceful.”
George, embarrassed to have been shown up by a female, jerked the bow out of my hand. “Girls are—”
He never finished what he was about to say. That was just as well, considering that I was prepared to throttle him myself if he heaped any more insults on womankind. Instead he paused, head cocked. He’d always had excellent hearing.
“Horseman,” he announced. “Coming fast.”
Our differences immediately forgotten, united by curiosity about the approaching arrival, we hurried back down the slope toward the other drawbridge, the one in the southwest corner of the outer ward. We did not have long to wait before a man rode in. He passed us without a single glance, intent upon reaching the inner ward.
“A messenger,” George said, and raced after him.
The arrival of a letter was not an unusual event, but this fellow’s lathered horse combined with his grim countenance suggested that his message was something out of the ordinary. Kate and I gathered up our skirts, running as fast as our feet could carry us to keep pace with the boys. The messenger had already dismounted by the time we reached him.
“Take me to Lady Wyatt,” he barked at one of my father’s gentlemen.
“My aunt will be in her solar at this time of day,” I said, panting a little from the unaccustomed exertion. “I will show you the way.”
“I am much obliged, mistress.”
The messenger’s eyes were bloodshot and his deeply lined face looked haggard, as if he’d been riding for days. Indeed, the marks of a long journey were plain upon his clothing. Mud streaked his boots and hose and his cloak stank of sweat and horse.
Kate started to accompany us, but as the eldest daughter still at home I was entitled to take ruthless advantage of my status. “Fetch Father,” I ordered. “Plainly, something is amiss.”
“Clever lass,” the messenger muttered.
The boys, although still curious, hung back. They had learned to be wary of their aunt Elizabeth. I, on the other hand, was at ease with my father’s sister. That she was my godmother probably helped. She’d always been fond of me.
When I was eleven, Aunt Elizabeth had come to live with us. She now resided at Cowling Castle most of every year, spending the remainder at Cobham Hall with her stepmother. Aunt Elizabeth’s lodgings were located in the southeast tower of the inner ward, above the vaulted corner chamber we used as a bathing room. As I’d predicted, she was in her solar.
My mother was there, too, together with their gentlewomen. They were playing cent, a popular card game. From the size of the pile of pennies, halfpennies, and shillings in front of her, my aunt was winning. Everyone turned to look at me when I appeared without warning in the doorway. They gaped when they caught sight of the man behind me.
Mother was the first to find her voice. “Whatever is the matter, Bess?”
Before I could answer, the messenger pushed past me into the room to stand glowering down at Aunt Elizabeth.
“What do you want, Rudstone?” She stood, putting her eye to eye with him. She was a tall woman, lean and angular. The fulminating glare she gave the messenger would have turned most men to stone.
“Your son sent me.” Master Rudstone’s tone suggested that he’d been coerced into making the journey to Cowling Castle.
Aunt Elizabeth’s son was my cousin, Thomas Wyatt the Younger. Tom lived at Allington Castle, near Maidstone, a journey of less than a day on horseback. Since I was certain this travel-stained courier had ridden a much greater distance, I waited with keen anticipation to hear his news.
Aunt Elizabeth was even more impatient than I. “Well? Speak up, man, and then begone.”
Rudstone’s lip curled in dislike but he obeyed. “I bring word of your husband, madam. My good master, Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder, died last week at the house of Sir John Horsey, in Dorset.”
Aunt Elizabeth blinked once, slowly, as she absorbed this information. Then she smiled. “I am a widow,” she whispered. “At last!”
Father barged into the chamber at that moment. He was at his autocratic best, outraged that a stranger had dared confront his womenfolk without his presence or permission. “What is going on here?” he demanded.
“Wyatt’s dead.” Eyes dancing, voice jubilant, Aunt Elizabeth looked as if she were about to dance a jig. “That great hypocrite, Thomas Wyatt the Elder, will never torment me again.”
Father gave his sister a stern look but his tone was sardonic. “Contain your grief, Eliza. Think of the repercussions. You will have to wear mourning for at least a year and you’ve never looked your best in black.”
“I will do no such thing. Wyatt threw me out of his house years ago. I owe him nothing.” A petulant look on her narrow face, Aunt Elizabeth resumed her seat at the table and picked up her cards. She wished to continue the game, but the other players did not cooperate.
Mother, ever the good hostess, had already gone to the sideboard to pour a cup of barley water for the messenger. He looked disgusted, but not surprised, by my aunt’s attitude.
“What was Sir Thomas doing in Dorset, Master Rudstone?” Mother asked when she’d handed him the goblet.