scent of gently rotting apples stacked on racks amongst countless books behind her, beyond the reach of the fire’s warmth.
‘You have your mother’s face,’ the old man said, holding up a candlestick to better see her. His hand trembled though he did not look weak.
‘As do you, Grandfather,’ Bess said. For it was true. The old man’s hair was still thick, hanging unkempt in waves of black and light grey to his shoulders, and his beard, which was almost all grey, was thick and voluminous as camp-fire smoke on a still day. Yet beneath all this the thin flesh on his face was tight over the bones, his cheeks prominent up to the lined skin and soft bulges beneath his eyes. As for the eyes themselves, which seemed now to drink of her, they were narrow and tired-looking, though still deep as wells beneath tufted grey brows.‘It has been a long time, Grandfather,’ Bess said, wishing she knew what the man before her was thinking.
Lord Heylyn leant in closer to Bess, so that she smelt his old skin and hair, caught a whiff of garlic and stale tobacco on his breath.
‘You’ve got your father’s eyes, I see,’ he said, a hint of tooth revealing itself within the bloom of grey bristles. He sees well enough, Bess thought, for it was true that although she resembled her mother in many ways her eyes were her father’s, more blue than green.
‘May I sit?’ Bess pointed to a chair, one of two by the fire. Her grandfather nodded, still staring at her.
‘Is she dead?’ he said, meaning her mother.
‘No. But my father is,’ she said, sitting and raising her hands to the flames. Books and apples, most of the fruit withered, littered the room. Here and there a candle flickered. ‘He died protecting the King’s ensign at Kineton Fight. They never found him.’
The old man followed, easing himself into the other chair, which creaked from long use. ‘He was no coward, your father,’ he said, at which Bess felt herself nod, relieved that his first words had not insulted her father’s memory. ‘If he had been, Mary would never have turned her back on me for him.’
‘He died for the cause, Grandfather,’ Bess said, ‘as did the man I was going to marry. Emmanuel.’ She said his name for herself, not him, for the old man had never met Emmanuel and his death would mean nothing to him. ‘We were handfast and would have wed.’
‘Then along came this war,’ her grandfather said.
Bess nodded. ‘Emmanuel and Edmund rode to the King when His Majesty raised the standard at Nottingham.’
Bess ached whenever she thought of her love, lost for ever, and her heart with him. And yet even the aching was something to which she could cling.
‘God’s wrath is England’s fire,’ Lord Heylyn said. ‘Drink!’he yelled again, eyes blazing as he looked towards the door for sign of his servant returning. Then he turned back to Bess, big hands gripping the ends of his chair’s arms so that the knuckles were bloodless. ‘Then your mother is well?’
‘Quite well,’ Bess said, aware she had raised her voice for the old man’s benefit. ‘For all her own efforts towards the war. We were besieged. Before Christmastide. Mother led a sortie and fought the rebels herself.’ Her grandfather’s eyes widened at that, which was hardly surprising, Bess thought. ‘I was delivered of my son whilst we were besieged. Little Francis.’ Another name to squeeze her heart, for the loss of her father and the missing of her baby. ‘Edmund returned and—’
‘Broke the siege and sent the rebels to Hell,’ her grandfather finished. ‘I am not so far removed from the world that I do not hear stories that are worth hearing.’ His left eyebrow lifted. ‘A child out of wedlock, hey? And what did Sir Francis make of that, I wonder?’
‘We had made our vows,’ Bess said, her hackles rising. ‘The ceremony was all arranged and we would have been wed before little Francis was born if not for the country turning on their king. We had
‘You have your mother’s face,’ the old man said, holding up a candlestick to better see her. His hand trembled though he did not look weak.
‘As do you, Grandfather,’ Bess said. For it was true. The old man’s hair was still thick, hanging unkempt in waves of black and light grey to his shoulders, and his beard, which was almost all grey, was thick and voluminous as camp-fire smoke on a still day. Yet beneath all this the thin flesh on his face was tight over the bones, his cheeks prominent up to the lined skin and soft bulges beneath his eyes. As for the eyes themselves, which seemed now to drink of her, they were narrow and tired-looking, though still deep as wells beneath tufted grey brows.‘It has been a long time, Grandfather,’ Bess said, wishing she knew what the man before her was thinking.
Lord Heylyn leant in closer to Bess, so that she smelt his old skin and hair, caught a whiff of garlic and stale tobacco on his breath.
‘You’ve got your father’s eyes, I see,’ he said, a hint of tooth revealing itself within the bloom of grey bristles. He sees well enough, Bess thought, for it was true that although she resembled her mother in many ways her eyes were her father’s, more blue than green.
‘May I sit?’ Bess pointed to a chair, one of two by the fire. Her grandfather nodded, still staring at her.
‘Is she dead?’ he said, meaning her mother.
‘No. But my father is,’ she said, sitting and raising her hands to the flames. Books and apples, most of the fruit withered, littered the room. Here and there a candle flickered. ‘He died protecting the King’s ensign at Kineton Fight. They never found him.’
The old man followed, easing himself into the other chair, which creaked from long use. ‘He was no coward, your father,’ he said, at which Bess felt herself nod, relieved that his first words had not insulted her father’s memory. ‘If he had been, Mary would never have turned her back on me for him.’
‘He died for the cause, Grandfather,’ Bess said, ‘as did the man I was going to marry. Emmanuel.’ She said his name for herself, not him, for the old man had never met Emmanuel and his death would mean nothing to him. ‘We were handfast and would have wed.’
‘Then along came this war,’ her grandfather said.
Bess nodded. ‘Emmanuel and Edmund rode to the King when His Majesty raised the standard at Nottingham.’
Bess ached whenever she thought of her love, lost for ever, and her heart with him. And yet even the aching was something to which she could cling.
‘God’s wrath is England’s fire,’ Lord Heylyn said. ‘Drink!’he yelled again, eyes blazing as he looked towards the door for sign of his servant returning. Then he turned back to Bess, big hands gripping the ends of his chair’s arms so that the knuckles were bloodless. ‘Then your mother is well?’
‘Quite well,’ Bess said, aware she had raised her voice for the old man’s benefit. ‘For all her own efforts towards the war. We were besieged. Before Christmastide. Mother led a sortie and fought the rebels herself.’ Her grandfather’s eyes widened at that, which was hardly surprising, Bess thought. ‘I was delivered of my son whilst we were besieged. Little Francis.’ Another name to squeeze her heart, for the loss of her father and the missing of her baby. ‘Edmund returned and—’
‘Broke the siege and sent the rebels to Hell,’ her grandfather finished. ‘I am not so far removed from the world that I do not hear stories that are worth hearing.’ His left eyebrow lifted. ‘A child out of wedlock, hey? And what did Sir Francis make of that, I wonder?’
‘We had made our vows,’ Bess said, her hackles rising. ‘The ceremony was all arranged and we would have been wed before little Francis was born if not for the country turning on their king. We had
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