The Tudor Throne Series: #2
The Welsh Gambit
Back Cover:
Lady Anwen cannot forget, nor her brother forgive. Since she killed Lord Meuric’s son in self-defense on a lonely Welsh road, and spent several months imprisoned and mistreated in his castle, Anwen has fought her nightmares. Alone and unable to bear a man’s touch, she unites with a local ‘witch’ to learn how to heal. As Edward Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, prepares for the autumn joust, he fears escalating tension between the locals and Lord Meuric’s brutal overseer, Beynon. His mood worsens when Sir Thomas Lovell, the king’s ruthless enforcer, arrives unannounced in search of a traitor. As thousands flock to the tourney, death, superstition, denial, and treason come to a brutal conflict, as a child searches the castle for the bones of a lost maiden and uncovers a terrible secret…
Author's Notes:
This was one of those novels that "found itself" amid a muddle of ideas. I must have rewritten it twenty times and each time, several characters and themes emerged with great strength -- the "witch" Winifred, Lady Anwen's struggle to overcome her traumatic past, and the marriage of Margaret and Richard Pole, which seems strong enough to outlast any storm. I had a wonderful time researching jousts and tourneys, thrusting the Staffords into the middle of events, and honoring Prince Arthur's memory with a rousing good story set in a time of deep national unrest and mourning for a lost prince. I hope you enjoy reading it half as much as I labored in love to write it.
Excerpt:
Anne Tyrell stares out the window, lost in the
beauty of the Welsh Marches. She spent her first year of
marriage in its green foothills. The carriage winds
through silver birch and blackthorn trees, each mile
closer to her children. Anne dreads their reunion. She
bears the shame of their father’s execution closer to
them with each turn of the wheels.
A stallion pulls level with
her view, its rider leading a dozen men. She peers at
the tall, angular man astride its back. His hair grays
at the temples, his narrow face severe. Once, she adored
Sir Thomas Lovell. She awaited news from him with
breathless excitement. Now, many years later, her
stomach tightens whenever they meet. He came to Guînes
under a pretext, persuaded her husband to return to
London, and imprisoned him on board ship. He then sent
men to disarm their son and threw them both in the
Tower.
She wonders how they ever
loved each other, yearning to forget their stolen kisses
and amorous whispers. He escorts her into the Welsh
Marches to attainder her estate in the king’s name. He
and Lord Dudley will cram her valuables onto carts and
keep them in the royal treasury until King Henry decides
otherwise.
The castle appears in a maple
grove, its gatehouse covered in roses and honeysuckle.
Her children wait in the courtyard, James the tallest at
eighteen, William three years younger, and Pet twelve.
Anne twists the door handle before the coach halts to
embrace her daughter, bewildered by her height. Pet
shares her height. Anne sweeps the hair back from her
face, gasping, “You have grown!”
“I gained two inches last
summer. I may outgrow you, Mother.” Pet’s amber eyes
flit to Lovell, her tone guarded. “I missed you.”
She approaches her sons,
aware of their audience. The boys hug her, their
expressions glum. Lovell scans the castle with scorn and
removes his gloves. Dudley dismounts and shakes out his
mantle. Anne steers Pet into the house. “We are together
now.”
“I wish it were under
different circumstances,” Pet whispers.
Anne catches her breath in
the foyer, moved by its sameness. The servants have
altered nothing in her absence. Familiar colorful
tapestries line the walls, the small staff assembled to
greet her. She scans their faces, noting the steward’s
absence with concern. Anne looks at her son, tension in
her words. “Where is Hywel?”
James glances at his brother.
“He fled after our father’s arrest.”
Her heart plummets. Anne
prayed on the journey none of their staff schemed with
her husband, knowing it would arouse further scrutiny of
their finances. She considers how to handle this and
turns with forced politeness when Lovell and Dudley
enter. “My lords, you will find our records upstairs.
The maid can show you. I trust you do not need me.”
The girl guides them
upstairs, Anne relieved in their absence. “Come,” she
tells her family, “we must discuss our future.”
They follow her into the
parlor where she shuts the door and joins Pet in a
window seat. It overlooks the garden, the fountain dry
and a rook’s nest in the crook of its statue. After a
deep breath Anne asks, “Why did you not warn me of
Hywel’s escape?”
James sinks onto a bench and
runs his fingers through his curls. “I dared not write
to you. I feared Lovell might read our letters.”
“Well, we can do nothing
about it now,” his mother says.
William shifts a stack of
books from a chair. “How is Tom? We have not
heard from our brother. Is he in the Tower?”
“Yes. I have visited him
twice. I believe him secure for now. Lovell could not
incriminate him at your father’s trial.” Anne rubs her
forehead. “I expect his release after the attainder.”
A bee buzzes the roses
outside the window, its wings deafening in the sullen
silence. Pet studies her palms, her voice small. “Nan
Browne wrote us of the ordeal. Was it dreadful, Mother?”
Anne cannot speak around the
lump in her throat. She saw her husband walk to the
scaffold, mount the stairs, utter a speech, and lay his
neck on the block. The ax severed it with a single
stroke.
“How could it not be?” James
asks. “They cut off his head.”
She cringes at his bluntness.
“Do not dwell on it. Remember him as you saw him last.
We had a fine Christmas together.”
Pet tries to smile but raises
only one side of her mouth. Quiet fills the pause while
Anne strokes her daughter’s hair. William fumbles with a
piece of ribbon. “Must we go before the tourney?”
She nods.
Prince Arthur planned to lead
the festivities, but now lies dead in a crypt. Reluctant
to rob the public of their entertainment, the king
appointed the Duke of Buckingham to hold it in his
honor.
Her eyes tearful, Pet says,
“James has trained for months!”
Pained by their distress but
unable to ease it, Anne squeezes her hand. “Our lives
have changed. We can no longer do as we please. We must
defer to the king’s wishes to live in London.”
“How much is our income?”
William stares at her with anxiety, his feet pulled
under him. “Enough to support our tutor?”
She scoured the accounts when
Lovell announced her living, but had to choose between a
tutor and a servant. Their faces fall at her pause. Anne
forces confidence into her words. “Our situation will be
painful and difficult, but we can survive. We have each
other.”
“But not Father,” William
whispers.
Anne blinks away her tears.
“Never doubt he loved you.”
“If he had, he would not have
chosen Suffolk,” James snaps.
She expects the others to
defend him but they study the floor instead. Shocked,
Anne scans their forlorn expressions. “Your father
pursued his ideals. Do not deplore him for his
mistakes.”
“My contempt is for the fiend
who imprisoned him,” James says.
She reaches out to pull him
near, reminded of his father in his unspoken anger.
“Never let Sir Thomas know how you feel.”
Voices draw her attention to
the courtyard where a monk parts from a maid to enter
the side door. Pet’s long sleeve brushes the sill when
she leans forward, her tone soft. “That’s Brother
Elfric.”
“What befell your other
confessor?” Anne asks, distressed.
James kicks at the hearth.
“Abbot Ifan recalled him to the abbey after his strength
declined. Elfric has tended us these last months.”
“I adore him,” Pet says with
radiant eyes.
Anne estimates him at
twenty-years-old, struck by his handsome face and gentle
air. She chews her lip, concerned by her daughter’s
infatuation. “Send him in to me. I want to meet him.
Then we can walk in the garden. Meet me outside in ten
minutes.”
Once her children retreat,
Anne crosses to the sideboard to pour a drink. The monk
enters after a knock, his bow graceful. Anne corks the
bottle and scans the amiable face and intent brown eyes.
“Brother Elfric, my family speaks well of you.”
“I serve them as best I can
under the circumstances, milady.”
Anne drinks the rich,
flavorful pear wine from their orchard, her husband’s
pride and joy. “I’m grateful you could comfort them in
my absence. I know not how to heal their broken hearts.”
“Lavish love upon them. Trust
God to manage their sorrow.”
She sinks onto the cushioned
bench. “How are they?”
“Pet has not confessed since
her father’s downfall.” The monk stares into the
honeysuckle. Anne notices a long scar on his neck.
“William spends most of his time with his falcons. James
mourns more than just his father. Lady Anwen no longer
writes him.”
Anne moans, this the result
of a feud between Anwen’s brother Lord Neirin and a
local landowner, Meuric. After a felled bridge barred
their return at Christmas, Meuric’s son caught them on
his land. When he tried to molest her maid, Anwen cut
his throat. The infuriated Meuric imprisoned her in his
garret until Lovell offered him a place on the Welsh
Council for her freedom.
“Has she shared the details
of her ordeal?” she asks.
Elfric shakes his head,
plucking a loose thread from his cowl. “She speaks not
of her tribulation. Lady Anwen hasn’t left her castle.
Unless a sympathetic soul reaches out to her, she may
never recover. She might welcome a visit from you, Lady
Tyrell.”
Voices float on the wind, her
children waiting in the inner bailey. “Do you try to
divert me from my torments with hers, Brother?”
The confessor shrugs, a
twinkle in his amber eyes. “Busy hands are the best cure
for a broken heart… unless you want to listen to Lord
Dudley and Sir Thomas assess the house?”
Aware of their footsteps upstairs, Anne shudders.
