The Golden Widows

Excerpt from THE GOLDEN WIDOWS
April 1461: Sheriff John Savage arrives to confront the widow Elysabeth Woodville, Lady Grey, at her manor of Astley in Warwickshire

‘What, pray you, sir, is your business with me?’
‘The King’s business, madame. I am the new sheriff. I understand you have Sir John Grey’s sons here with you?’ The inquiry, unexpected, puzzling, drew blood.
‘Yes,’ Elysabeth replied, trying to stay calm while her anxious thoughts were running amok. Christ forbid, the king would take them from her.
‘Let them be summoned hither, madame.’ The sheriff looked round at her steward, ‘And you, sirrah, assemble the servants forthwith!’
‘My lord, surely—,’ she began, but he ignored her.
‘Some fine arras you have here.’ The jerk of sharp chin towards the ‘Hunting of the Hart’ tapestry rang alarum bells in her head.
‘A wedding gift from my grandmother, the daughter of the Duke of Andria,’ she informed him, and watched the man’s thumbs waggle behind his back as he stood in front of it.
‘Not Flemish then?’
‘Italian.’
‘Not worth so much then.’ Christ’s Mercy, he was assessing her possessions as though she was not the widow but the deceased. ‘Your family are not born here, then?’
‘My mother is Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford.’ As soon as she said it, she knew she had been set up like a quintain to tilt at. The sheriff’s mouth serifed into a smirk.
‘Ah yes, the foreign woman who married her servant.’ The shaft of the insult cut in deeper still as he added: ‘And here I take it here is her grace’s grandson.’ He looked past Elysabeth with a sneer. ‘Master Grey, is it?’
Tom had arrived. There was no mistaking him in the proud tilt of head as he halted in the doorway behind his father’s chair and stared at the sheriff as an equal. After the round-shouldered, keep-away-from-me misery of the last two months, this stance was a surprise to Elysabeth, but to her shame, he was not even wearing a doublet over his gipon. He met her appalled glance with a defiant quirk of mouth as he led his small brother across to salute their visitor. Mind, he made his bow to the sheriff with sufficient grace. Poor Dickon, however, mimicked his older brother to such perfection, even down to the tight smile, that the men-at-arms broke into laughter.
Embarrassed, Elysabeth gestured the boys across to join her and unhappily watched the last of her household being sheep-dogged into line.
‘All here?’ Stretching his neck with the importance of a rooster surveying the henhouse, the sheriff perched his spectacles on his nose and drew a thick parchment from his belt. The servants hushed their muttering. Only Tom stood with his arms defiantly folded and one heel turned nonchalantly in, just like John in a testy humour.
‘In the name of the King, by the powers invested in me by his highness, I am here to proclaim that “the property of the attainted traitor, John Grey, Knight, late styling himself Lord Ferrers, is confiscate to the crown.”’
Christ in Heaven! Elysabeth’s first thought was for Tom. He was still holding his head proudly but she could see his jaw was clenched. God give us strength, she prayed, as the pompous voice droned on:
‘”All manors belonging to the said traitor are to be seized and any coin, plate and other moveable are to be yielded to the cro––”’
‘Excuse me!’ Tom cut in. The sheriff turned his head so sharply, the spectacles skewed. ‘Your pardon, Sheriff,’ her son persisted haughtily, ignoring the man’s outrage, ‘but there is a part I find confusing.’
‘Which part, boy?’ Sarcasm underscored each word. ‘I should have thought it was plain to anyone of intelligence.’
‘The part about the king, sir. There are two kings in England. Which one sent you?’