Lord Hugh had been to London only half a dozen times in his life, he was the master of the loyal excuse. He had gone to Queen Anne's coronation, where a man was safer to be seen in support than absent, wearing sober clothes and standing at the back, the very picture of a provincial, loyal lord. He voted by proxy, he bribed and negotiated by letter. When summoned to court he pleaded ill health, dangerous unrest in his lands or, lately, old age; and at once sent the King a handsome present to please the errant royal favour. He knew from his kin at court who were the coming men and who were likely to fall. He had spies in the royal offices who reported to him the news he needed. He had debtors scattered across the country who owed him money and favours. A thousand men called him cousin and looked to him for favour and protection and paid him with information. He sat like a wily spider in a network of caution and fear. He represented the power of the King in the wild lands of the north, and took his place on the great Council of the North, but never more than once a year. He never showed the family wealth or their power too brightly, for fear of envious southerners' eyes. He followed the traditions of his father and his grandfather. They lived on their lands, riding all day and never leaving their own borders. They sat in their own courts. They handed down justice in their own favour. They announced the King's laws and they enforced those they preferred. They did very well as obscure tyrants.
Their greatest rivals were the Prince Bishops and the monasteries, and now the Bishops were fighting for their wealth and could be fighting for their lives. The old lord saw the good times opening slowly for his son, and for his son's unborn, not-yet-conceived heir, and his son after him. Hugo's grandson would be as rich in land as any lord in England, would command more men than most. He could throw his influence with Scotland, with England. He would own a little kingdom of his own. Who could guess how far the family might rise, if they waited and used their caution and their wisdom as they always had done?
But the young Lord Hugo did not want to wait for the great lands of monasteries to come his way in maybe five, ten years from now. He did not want to wait for the sheep to be shorn, the copyholders' fines to be slowly increased, the annual rents brought in. He wanted wealth and power at once. He had friends who owned wagons, one who had a fleet of barges, one who was mining coal and iron ore, another who spoke of ocean-going ships and prizes to be had from countries beyond Europe, beyond the known world. He spoke of trade, of business, of lending and borrowing money at new profitable rates. He never showed his impatience with his father, and Alys feared him more because of this single, uncharacteristic discretion.
'He wants to go to London,' she warned the old lord. 'I know,' he said. 'I am holding him back and he will not tolerate it forever.' Alys nodded.
'Have you heard more?' the old lord asked. 'Any plots, any plans? D'you think his impatience grows so strong that he would poison me, or lock me away?'
Alys' nostrils flared as if she could smell the danger in the question. 'I have heard nothing,' she said. 'I was only saying that the young lord is impatient to make his way in the world. I accuse him of nothing.'
'Tssk,' the old lord said impatiently. 'I need you to be ready to accuse him, Alys. You are in my daughter-in-law's chamber, you hear the gossip of the women. Catherine knows full well that if she does not conceive a child within the year I will find a way to be rid of her. Her best way would be to get rid of me before I make a move. Hugo is mad for the court and for London and I block his way south. Listen for me, Alys. Watch for me. You go everywhere, you can hear and see everything. You do not need to accuse Hugo or Catherine, either one or the other. You just have to tell me your suspicions- your slightest suspicions.' 'I have none,' Alys said firmly. 'Lady Catherine speaks of your death as an event in the future, nothing more. I have never heard her admit that she fears a divorce or an annulment. And Lord Hugo comes to her rooms only rarely, and I never see him outside your chamber.'
He was silent for a moment. 'You don't see Hugo outside my room?' he confirmed.
Alys shook her head.
'He does not waylay you?'
'No,' Alys replied.
It was true. Either Morach's tisane had worked, or the old lord had made his wishes plain. When Alys rode back to the castle from Morach's cottage, Hugo had shot her one unrepentant wink, but never ordered her to his chamber again. After that, she kept out of the young lord's way as much as she could, and kept her eyes on the ground when she had to walk past him. But one cold morning, in the guardroom below the old lord's private chamber, she was coming down the little staircase as Hugo waited to walk up.
'Always in a hurry, Alys,' Hugo said conversationally. He took her sleeve in a firm grip between two fingers. 'How is my father today?'
'He is well, my lord,' Alys said. She kept her eyes on the stone flags between his riding boots. 'He slept well, his cough has eased.'
'It's this damp weather,' Hugo said. 'You can feel the mist coming off the river, can't you, Alys? Doesn't it chill you to the bone?'
Alys shot a swift upward look at him. His dark face was bent down towards her, very close, as if she might whisper a reply.
'I have no complaint, my lord,' she said. 'And the spring will come soon.'
'Oh, not for months and months yet,' Hugo said. 'We have long days of darkness and cold yet to come.' He whispered the words 'darkness and cold' as if they were an invitation to the firelit warmth of his room. 'I do not feel the cold,' she said steadily. 'Do you dislike me?' Hugo asked abruptly. He dropped her sleeve and put both hands either side of her face, turning it up to him. 'You told my father that I had invited you and that you were unwilling. Do you dislike me, Alys?'
Alys stayed still and looked steadily at the silvery whiteness of the falling band of his collar, as if it could cool her.
'No, my lord,' she said politely. 'Of course not.' 'But you never came to my room,' he observed. 'And you told tales to my father. So he told me to keep my hands off you. Did you know that?'
He held Alys' face gently. She stole a quick look at his eyes; he was laughing at her. 'I did not know that.'
'So you do like me then?' he demanded. He could hardly hold back his laughter at the absurdity of the conversation. Alys could feel laughter bubbling up inside herself too.
'It is not my place, my lord, to either like you or dislike you,' Alys said primly. Under his fingers her cheeks were tingling.
Hugo stopped laughing, held her face still with one hand, and with a gentle fingertip traced a line from the outside of her eye, down her cheek-bone to the corner of her lip. Alys froze still, unmoving beneath his caress. He bent a little closer. Alys shut her eyes to blot out the image of Hugo's smiling intent face coming closer. He hesitated, a half, a quarter of an inch from Alys' lips.
'But I like you, Alys,' he said softly. 'And my father will not live forever. And I think you would feel the cold if you were back on Bowes Moor again.'
Alys stayed mute. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. His lips were very close to hers. She could not move away from his kiss, she could only wait, passive, her face turned up, her eyes slowly, drowsily closing. Then his hands left her face and he straightened up. Alys' eyes flew open; she stared at him in surprise.