Read Online The Midsummer Crown by Kate Sedley - Free Book Online Page A

bolted down at wayside hostelries and, on the Tuesday night, a few hours’ sleep snatched at an inn whose only lasting impression on me was the countless number of fleabites which reddened my skin and made me itch for long hours afterwards.
    The house lies in a hollow, standing on the banks of the River Windrush, the high ground to the north rising towards Wychwood Forest and to the south towards the main Gloucester to Oxford track. It is built – family and servants’ quarters and domestic buildings – four-square around an inner courtyard, and, when I first saw it, was only some thirty-five years old. Consequently, it is a house whose function is simply for living in and makes no pretence at defensibility except for some ornamental machicolations on the south-west tower.
    We approached it from the east late on Wednesday, across a small stone bridge spanning the river, and looked down on walls glowing saffron and honey in the afternoon light, scythed through with long amethyst shadows that inched slowly forward across the courtyard. The indignant yelping of dogs greeted us as we rode under the gateway arch, nodded through by a porter who immediately recognized Timothy’s blue and murrey livery and the White Boar crest as belonging to the mighty Duke of Gloucester. He even gave me a curt nod as I was looking more respectable than usual, Timothy having insisted that I wore one of the two decent outfits loaned to me for my journey to Paris the preceding year and, to the spymaster’s eternal disgust, subsequently presented to me by the duke as a reward for my services. As a result, I was, much against my will, decked out in brown hose and yellow tunic, a velvet hat sporting a fake jewel on its upturned brim, and with a good camlet cloak strapped to my saddlebag.
    â€˜I’m not jaunting about the countryside with you looking like a scarecrow,’ Timothy had informed me on Monday night. ‘So put on one of those expensive tunics my lord’s exchequer could ill-afford to give you, a decent shirt and your best boots and, for once, try to look like a gentleman.’
    â€˜Expensive my arse!’ had been my ungentlemanly response, but I had complied, nevertheless. I could see no point in making the journey even more uncomfortable than it already promised to be by quarrelling with my companion.
    Dogs, three or four greyhounds and a couple of mastiffs, were by now circling us, their barking and growling causing the horses to sidle and shift uneasily, but whereas Timothy was well in command of his mount, I was unsure of my ability to control mine. Fortunately, before this was put to the test, a man strolled out of a nearby doorway and called them to heel.
    â€˜They won’t hurt you, master,’ he said grinning up at me and plainly sensing my fear. ‘Gentle as milk, they are.’ He had all the countryman’s contempt for the townsman, particularly for the popinjay that I appeared to be. Then his eyes swiveled to Timothy and took in the Gloucester livery. At once, his manner changed. He tugged his greying forelock. ‘William Blancheflower, sir, kennel man to Sir Francis. What’s your pleasure?’
    â€˜Where’s the steward?’ Timothy demanded, dismounting. ‘You’ve heard the news from London, I suppose?’
    The man’s face was suddenly haggard. ‘About poor Tutor Machin and the young master? Yes, sir, we heard yesterday. Young Piers Daubenay was sent by Dame Copley with the dreadful tidings. You don’t know if Master Gideon’s been found yet, do you, sir?’
    Before Timothy could reply, I eased myself stiffly from the saddle and asked. ‘Who’s Piers Daubenay?’
    â€˜I am, sir,’ announced a voice behind me, and I swung round to see a smooth-skinned youth of, I reckoned, some sixteen or seventeen summers standing at my elbow. Bright blue eyes and a mop of reddish-brown curls were the most outstanding features of