Stolen Heiress. Joanna Makepeace
was roughly shaken awake at first light. Again she went outside with Margery and returned to the hut where the men were dividing up a quantity of dark rye bread and sharing ale. Robert Devane silently handed her a hunk of the bread and a wooden cup containing ale. He made no apologies for the poorness of fare and she made no complaints. It was still very cold, but the wind had dropped considerably and she had noticed a lightness, compared to the previous day’s leaden sky, which heralded the possibility of a wintry sun showing itself later.
She saw the men making preparations for departure, packing their meagre supplies and checking their weapons. She became anxious to know if Margery Lightbody was to accompany the party. Hostile as the woman was, she represented Clare’s one female supporter amongst this motley company of men.
Robert Devane soon disabused her of that fear.
‘Margery is to go with us. Unfortunately, she cannot ride alone and must go pillion. Have I your word that you will be sensible? Otherwise, I must carry you face down upon my saddle bow.’
Clare grimaced. The very humiliating idea of the threat convinced her that, for the present, she must cooperate with her captor.
‘I will agree to ride with you throughout this day only,’ she rejoined coldly. ‘Later, I will make no promises.’
He nodded and gave the signal for the little group to leave the hut and saddle up.
She was glad of her own palfrey, who whinnied with pleasure at sight of her. Margery watched stolidly while Robert Devane assisted Clare into the saddle. Then, somewhat apprehensively, she mounted behind Sym Fletcher, who made some ribald remark that made her snort as he insisted she tuck her arms firmly round his waist. Clare noticed that the Frenchman rode companionably close to Robert Devane and, though he said nothing, his black snapping eyes showed his amusement at her discomfiture.
The company rode as silently as they had traversed the wood the previous day, only the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the faint snapping of an occasional twig marking their passing. She still had no idea where Robert Devane was taking her and was much too proud to enquire. They fell into single file as the woodland path grew narrow and Clare saw Silas Whitcome was bringing up the rear leading the sumpter mule.
She looked about her constantly and, at last, realised they were heading south, eventually taking a well-worn path, which she thought ran parallel to the Roman highway that ran to London and St Albans. While they were still comparatively close to Clare’s own manor, Robert Devane was taking no chances of riding along the main highway, with the risk of Clare being recognised and the company challenged.
Some miles further south he issued an order. Apparently, he now thought it was safe enough to run onto the main Roman thoroughfare. Were they riding to London? Clare wondered. Perhaps Robert Devane was intending to join his master, the Earl of Warwick, whom she had heard had now left Calais and landed on English soil. If so, then the Yorkist lords were already beginning to once more gain ground and confidence after their defeat at Wakefield.
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