A Court of Betrayal

by Anne O'Brien

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

'Anne O'Brien gets right inside the heads of her characters!' JOANNA HICKSON

'A terrific storyteller' THE DAILY TELEGRAPH

ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR...

The Welsh Marches, 1301

Strong-willed heiress Johane de Geneville is married to Richard Mortimer, Earl of March, at just fifteen years old.

Soon Johane finds herself swept up in a world of treacherous court politics and dangerous secrets as her husband deposes Edward II and rules England alongside Queen Isabella.

Yet when Richard is accused of treason, she is robbed of her freedom and must survive catastrophic events in her fight for justice - with her life, and her children's, hanging in the balance...

Will she pay for her husband's mistakes, or will she manage to escape from a terrible fate?

Release date: February 29, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

Pembridge in the Welsh Marches, September 1301

‘Is this de Geneville priest ever going to show his face?’

An opinion expressed, not quite sotto voce, by Roger Mortimer at my right-hand side, standing as we were at the church door as was the custom. I glanced across and replied.

‘Father Anselm is very old.’

‘Then perhaps he has fallen dead in the nave. At this rate we will not be wed before dusk. We should have brought our own Mortimer priest from Wigmore.’

Was the man born under the influence of Taurus the Bull so arrogant? Yes, he was. I had been warned.

‘Perhaps you should, if you are incapable of waiting for another few moments. We will be wed soon enough.’

‘And this church is very small and plain,’ he commented as if on a passing thought. ‘Neither carving nor grandeur. This would have been better done in the cathedral in Hereford.’

‘Then you can rebuild this small, plain church into one with both carving and grandeur, when it becomes yours,’ I replied briskly.

‘Perhaps I will.’

The little indented lines at the corner of his mouth spoke of a severe bout of conceit and impatience, worthy of my grandfather. I frowned at him, and although he raised one shoulder in a shrug, he chose not to reply.

As for me, I was wearing my bride-clothes with much enjoyment from the slide of finest French silk, dyed a celestial blue worthy of the Virgin herself. Above my head there was a clamour of rooks in the stand of elms in the churchyard. Those of a nervous disposition, and there might be many in this wind-blown congregation, open to the elements as we were, might say that such raucous cawing could be as much an ill omen as a sign of good fortune. It was early morning on the eve of the feast of Matthew the Apostle, the twentieth day of September. A day chosen for the blessings that St Matthew would bestow on us: health, wealth and fecundity. But then any saint would do to ensure the successful accomplishing of this union.

Although it was barely past the heat of summer, the day was cool, so that I shuddered beneath the layers of tunic and over-tunic, but more from unease than from the blustery wind that threatened to dislodge the pins holding my simple veil in place, although every hearty gust of wind caused it to flap as if it were a bird about to take flight.

This event in my young life would open a window into the unknown, where the outlook was as shadowy as a misty day on the Welsh hills over into the west. All mists and clouds had been blown away today but still I could not see the future. Perhaps it was as well. I inhaled slowly. De Genevilles did not succumb to baseless fears. The sun shone brightly, making the jewels on my bodice sparkle, a brooch set with cabochon rubies, given to me by my grandfather to mark the day.

Roger Mortimer, unconcerned with my jewels, sighed and shuffled from one foot to the other.

I considered, as we still awaited the priest, if the frowning individual at my side was as uncertain of the future as I? It did not appear so. He might be a year younger than I but he was no callow youth. There was no element of clumsy immaturity about him. We were much of a height although I thought he had not yet grown into his full strength. When not shuffling, he was all confidence, his feet planted on the paving, shoulders square, hands clasped around his belt. Had we met before? No, not even when the marriage contract was signed two years ago. I swallowed against a breath of trepidation after my mother’s warning as she brushed out my hair. I was not ignorant of what passed between man and wife, for my mother had informed me in bleak terms, but this was yet another unknown. Would my mother’s experience of a cool marriage, hedged about with duty and acceptance and childbearing, be mine? All I could say was that my mother had not seemed to regret her widowhood and the passing of my father from this life.

I would like some passion, some love, some adoration, from this marriage, I thought with a youthful dismissal of reality, as we continued to wait for the ceremony to begin. I had read the new stories coming out of Brittany, of Tristram and Iseult, the tragic tale of star-crossed lovers who had been parted for ever, to the grief of both. I would hope that this match with Roger Mortimer might bring me lasting contentment, even joy.

‘You must not even consider it,’ my mother had warned. ‘The Mortimers want you for your inheritance. There is no emotion in the ownership of land, unless it be greed and ambition.’

It was not encouraging, and so far all the heir had done was annoy me with his high-handed censure. I slid another glance at him. What did he make of me? He did not even look in my direction. Attractive features would not matter to him, since my dowry was so weighty. I was Baroness de Geneville in my own right which would offset the most ugly of brides.

Then here was Father Anselm, smoothing his vestments as if they had been hastily donned, straightening his stole. He was about to enjoy the importance of this occasion, bowing his head to my grandfather who was clearly annoyed at the delay.

‘At last! My feet are frozen,’ my betrothed observed. ‘May St Matthew cast his blessings on us all. Let us get on with it.’

Oblivious to such a discourteous command, Father Anselm took charge and there, at the church door, with the continuing rook chorus, we made our vows before the priest and before God. My betrothed’s voice was strong as he made his claim on me.

‘I, Roger, take thee, Johane, for my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward …’

I duly repeated the plighting of my troth. When instructed, Roger clasped my hand in his, so that the priest might wrap his stole around them into a neat parcel, while he pronounced the sacred words of commitment.

‘Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium.’

It was done. Loyalty and obedience and marital duty was to be my lot. The priest handed to me my gift of gold from my husband, in the form of the plain ring which was pushed onto my finger. To Roger was handed the far more costly gift of my dowry, all packaged up in a charter, heavy with de Geneville seals, as well as a small leather bag of coin, the purse of my own stitching with a de Geneville coat of arms, as a promise of future wealth.

Behind us the Mortimer parents and my mother nodded in benign agreement. Of course Sir Edmund de Mortimer would not be displeased with this addition of a daughter-in-law to his family. The previous year Sir Edmund had turned to my grandfather for a substantial loan to help maintain his castles, but my grandfather did not lend money without assurance that he would gain a return, and had driven a hard bargain. My person had been the legal bond in that contract. I knew this and I knew my worth to both families.

My husband and I shared a brisk marital kiss to each cheek, barely a brush of cold lips, after which we all processed into the church, to stand before the altar in the dark interior, bound by solid Norman pillars, to hear Mass.

‘My lady.’ My husband bowed to me and held out his hand.

‘My lord.’ I curtsied and placed my hand in his, to a rustle of amusement.

‘At least no one turned up to stop our wedding.’

His impatience had been replaced by a rough good humour.

‘Would they dare?’ I observed. ‘There are enough armed men here to mount an invasion of Wales.’

Roger Mortimer led me out of the church to traditional good wishes, to where our marriage feast was to be held in our castle, just beyond the church. The feet of the throng clattered behind us across the drawbridge which had once been mine but now belonged to Roger Mortimer.

He did not look overly admiring of his new property. Although I had never visited Wigmore Castle, I imagined that there was no comparison, for this was little more than a moated manor house, the accommodations meagre. The main hall impressed well enough, with steps along the far wall to give access to my solar and a chapel, but all the accommodations stood separately to the north, with the stables on the south side. The ground was muddy from a recent shower of rain, so much so that I lifted my trailing skirts and walked on my gilded-leather toes. My shoes were new and I would have a care for them. Inside at least the hall had been festooned with de Geneville banners, the tables set out beneath the heraldic lions awarding an air of festivity.

‘It does not impress me,’ my new husband stated as we stepped into the hall.

‘It was once even less impressive,’ I replied, eyeing the rough wood and plaster of the walls and screens where new building had taken place in this little manor that was part of my dowry. ‘You should be thankful. Six months ago we would have had to sleep with our guests in the hall. A new bedchamber has been constructed for us.’

‘Then there is much to be thankful for,’ he said.

And for the first time he smiled at me.

We took our seats at the head of the table and so it began.

The celebration continued all day, as such events were like to do, since many of our well-wishers, the great and the good of English and Welsh nobility, had travelled some distance to witness such a crucial marriage to the balance of power in the area, and would not depart until the following morning. We were crammed from wall to wall while their entourages were forced to make shift in the stables and kitchen accommodations. What would I recall of it later? A motley group of minstrels who sang and played, frequently out of tune. An abundance of roast meats, heavy in thick sauce, with fine bread to mop up the juices. The marriage cup, chased around its rim with a wreath of flowers, that my husband gave first to me with grave courtesy.

We danced, with some enthusiasm, so that I could see the extravagance of his shoes that challenged mine in the length of their toes and gilding of the leather over the instep. Oh, he was dressed as a prince even though he would be a mere Marcher lord, yet Marcher lords were powerful enough, and the quality of his fine woollen tunic in deep russet with its heavy fur around the neck could not be doubted. His elegantly hanging over-sleeves were lined with what looked to me like sable. At least someone had taught him to dance. And to join in the banter as the wine flowed, but he did not drink over-much. His eyes remained watchful, aware, taking in the number and quality of our guests.

Dusk gradually became dark, by which time all were suffused with food and wine, and I, weary of it all, was looking to my mother for permission to withdraw, when a shout went up to bring us out into the courtyard in time to see a heavenly body shooting high across the heavens, like a fiery stone loosed from a siege engine. We stood, Roger and I, and watched as its path vanished, its brilliant light faded, and all was once again tranquil, the stars becoming obliterated in cloud.

‘What do you suppose it means?’ I asked, more for something to say.

‘Good fortune,’ he replied promptly.

‘Or disaster. Sometimes, my grandfather says, such stars denote a battle or a pestilence.’

He shook his head. ‘I see only glory for myself in a comet passing over my head on my marriage-day.’

‘Only for you?’

I nudged him with a new intimacy, a sudden confidence brought on by more than one cup of de Geneville wine, which made my heart race.

‘We will make it good fortune for us.’ He drew my hand through his arm and leaned to whisper. ‘We will give the Mortimer family a handful of strong heirs for the future.’

‘I should remind you,’ I whispered back, mildly annoyed at his absolute certainty. ‘My mother had little success. She never bore a son. Not with her first husband, nor with her second, my father.’ I looked across to where she was conversing with Roger’s mother. ‘Not one son. Only daughters. My family does not have a good record of strong heirs.’

Roger Mortimer was unperturbed.

‘We will do better. I promise you.’

Which was a promise for the immediate future and made my heart race even faster.

Since we were of an age considered to be appropriate for marriage, it had been decided that we would live as man and wife from the first day of our exchange of vows. What point in waiting before consummation? Without too much ceremony, when the feast was nothing but crumbs and the minstrels, dry-throated, retired to recover with copious amounts of ale, we were dispatched to our chamber and left to further our acquaintance once the bed had been blessed by the priest, our outer garments removed, and all sprinkled indiscriminately with holy water.

Still clad in our linen undergarments we sat on either side of the bed, its coverlet embroidered with the de Geneville lion, matching the drapes at the bed-head, and looked at each other, all our finery laid aside in a heap of silk and wool and fur. It was like casting aside my old life for a new one. The silence grew. The candle-shadows flickered over us in the draughts from the window. Momentarily they gave Roger Mortimer a saturnine look.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked as I allowed my gaze to move over his face, taking in his shoulders and strong arms, his hands loosely linked.

‘Looking at you.’

The corners of his mouth curved. ‘What do you see?’

‘The priest told me that you were good to look at.’

Now he grinned. ‘And am I so?’

‘Yes.’

His hair was dark and thick but the density was lighted by streaks of old bronze, and it intrigued me that his eyes were of a similar mix of colour. His fair skin was flushed across his high cheekbones; his nose was straight and undoubtedly masterful. His lean face and chin spoke of a wilfulness. As for his hands, they were broad-palmed, long-fingered. I imagined they would manage a rein and a sword admirably. I liked the manner in which his hair curled across his forehead, but then he pushed it back with an impatient gesture which I would soon learn was habitual with him.

‘What of me?’ I asked, hoping for compliments.

‘I prefer fair women.’

I bridled. My hair was the colour of my grandfather’s new bay stallion; rich and glossy perhaps, but fair it was not.

‘I like blue eyes in a woman.’

Mine were grey-brown.

‘And I like courtesy in a man!’

He laughed. ‘I like you very well on such short acquaintance.’

‘My two sisters are thought to be more comely than I,’ I admitted. ‘But I have the inheritance. That is the allure.’

‘A magnificent allure,’ he agreed. ‘And I am not discourteous. You are as tall as I, and that attracts me. I like the way your brows are straight, as if you might readily frown, but you will smile anyway to please me.’

Which indeed made me smile. Silence fell again, but it was a more companionable one.

‘Well?’ I asked, when he showed no sign of breaking it.

‘I have a gift for you,’ Roger Mortimer said.

‘You have given me this.’ I held up my hand on which the simple gold circle shone in the candlelight.

‘Not that, although it was costly enough, made from Welsh gold. But that was simply necessary. My father had it made over in the Welsh hills, spiced with faerie magic, so they say, to keep a marriage true for all time. This is something you will enjoy. Your mother, Lady Jeanne, says that you will.’ His eyes glinted with a minor conspiracy. ‘I had my mother talk to your mother. This is the result.’

He had thought of me, beyond the necessity. He had asked my mother. It warmed my heart, my childish pleasure in gifts reborn in an instant.

‘What is it? Where is it?’

‘Here.’

Bounding off the bed he walked to the coffer where a package lay, bringing it back to present to me with a courteous bow. There was an innate swagger about him, even when wearing only braes.

‘To my new wife, who will one day be Lady de Mortimer, to mark the day of our marriage.’

It was a book. A costly book, its leather cover glowing with gold embossing. Opening it at random I was more than admiring of the illuminations of the Court of King Arthur and his Knights. All the stories that I knew well were recounted there. I sighed over it in delight.

‘It is the finest book I have ever owned.’

‘Look at the first page.’

Opening it as directed I saw what he had written there.

The book of Johane de Mortimer. From her husband Roger Mortimer, on this day of their marriage.

The tales were written in French, probably sent from the home of his mother who was from the powerful de Fiennes family living in Picardy. It touched my heart, but I would not show it yet. I looked up at him beneath my lashes.

‘And you can write.’

Spiky, angular, uneven, as if a pen were not his first weapon of choice, but still a firm, strong, confident hand.

‘Of course I can write.’ There was the hint of temper that I had seen in the church doorway. ‘The Mortimers are not peasants.’

‘I did not intend to besmirch your birth. The Marcher lords, so my grandfather says, prefer the sword to the pen.’

‘I can wield both with equal dexterity. Although,’ he admitted after a pause in which he garnered the truth, ‘I prefer the sword. It tends to be more effective and quicker to get a result. I doubt I will ever be good at diplomacy and treaty-making. Unless at sword point.’

I laughed at the naivety, the sheer confidence. I thought that he would not always be naive.

‘I have a gift for you,’ I said, putting aside this most beautiful of books on my pillow.

He looked round at the sparse surfaces where it might be resting. ‘It is here?’

‘No.’

‘Then where is it? Can I see it now?’

His enthusiasm was most endearing. Wrapping a chamber-robe around me to cover my shift, I opened the door, calling for a servant. A brief, low-voiced conversation ensued.

‘Now we must wait.’ I returned to sit beside him once again, during which we exchanged inconsequential comments, some scurrilous, on our guests. Then a scrabbling of claws at the door.

‘Do you have large rats in this place? Before God, it is no palace, Johane.’

I refused to rise to the bait. My manor was lacking luxury but it was not more vermin-ridden than any other castle, I would swear.

‘Open it,’ I urged.

Leaping up again, he did so, to be almost swept off his feet by two young Irish wolfhounds, held hard on their collars by a page who released them and closed the door behind them. They promptly bounded around the chamber, sniffing in corners, searching for their quarry before coming to stand in the centre of the room as if unsure of what to do next. Then they sank before the fire and sighed at the warmth, as Roger squatted beside them, running his fingers through the dark grey pelt of each, soft without the coarse hair of adulthood. Their noses were still blunt, their jaws short, their ears small. When they grew they would have all the traits of high-bred dogs; the recognisable long noses, long jaws, ears flat to the head, their shoulders high, their legs long for fast running. One day they would reach his waist but now they rolled around his ankles as they snuffled at his hands.

He crowed with laughter.

‘Magnificent!’

‘My grandfather bred them. They are brought from Trim Castle in Ireland.’

‘Do they have names?’

‘They are for you to call. They have an illustrious ancestry.’

He thought, flinching as they gnawed on his fingers with their sharp teeth. ‘Something Irish, I think.’

‘And heroic.’

‘They will be Cúchulainn and Lugh, of course. Ouch!’ He rolled them over, rubbing their ears, enjoying their lively spirit when they resisted being pushed away. ‘They will be good hunting dogs. God’s Blood, they have teeth!’

‘Perhaps we should send them back, or we’ll have no rest. Call for Martin.’

He glanced up at me. ‘I was not thinking of rest.’

Pushing himself to his feet, he opened the door and bellowed for the page who had brought them. The hounds were handed over; we could hear Martin pulling them down the stairs with much crude encouragement.

‘How did you know that I enjoyed hunting?’

‘Who does not in the Marches?’

He went to the bowl of scented water, washed his hands and face with unexpected fastidiousness where the hounds had licked him, applying the blanched length of linen effectively, then returned to me again, and took the book from the pillow, placing it on the floor beside the bed.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘It was my pleasure to give you something that would give you pleasure.’

Capturing my hands, he kissed my fingers.

‘We have other things to attend to, which may be equally pleasurable.’

‘I have no experience of this,’ I admitted, watching him douse the candles, moving with an unconscious ease.

‘But I have.’

‘And where did you acquire that?’

‘Do you wish to know?’

I could well imagine dalliance in one Mortimer castle or another. ‘No. I do not. But I, Roger Mortimer, am no kitchen wench, to be tumbled without grace.’

‘And I would never treat you with such lack of consideration, Lady Johane.’

He bowed with elegant dignity in the shadows, full of humour, at odds with his unclothed state. I remembered again the traits of character of Taurus the Bull. What manner of man would he become? Would it make my life comfortable or balancing on the edge of danger or humiliation? His smile began to fade.

‘What are you thinking now?’ he asked.

‘How important is loyalty to you?’

In an instant his expression became severe, as if it were an issue that had exercised his mind more than once. His lips pressed tightly, I thought that he might not answer, thinking it an impertinence for a new bride to ask. He did anyway.

‘More than you can guess at. Loyalty will guide my life. Loyalty to my King. To my rank as a foremost Marcher lord. To my family.’ His eyes captured and held mine. ‘And to you, my wife. Today we exchanged binding oaths.’

A straight enough answer that touched my heart. As long as those loyalties never found the need to collide. Then any worries over conflicting allegiances vanished when he leaned across the space between us and touched my mouth with his, very gently.

‘Have I told you that you have the sweetest lips to kiss?’

Which was romantic enough to startle me. ‘From which poet did you learn that?’

‘How unflattering!’ He laughed. ‘It is my own thought.’

‘Then you can tell me now.’ I frowned at him when he leaned to kiss me again. ‘I do not know you.’

‘Well, I do not know you either. We will know each other better tomorrow.’

And so we did. I was ignorant but willing to learn since Roger Mortimer had more knowledge of what was required in a marriage bed than did I. It was a breath-taking experience with little skill but much enthusiasm, rumpled bed-linen, and some laughter, after an initial screech of discomfort on my part.

‘Do you think that you will quicken straightaway?’ he asked after he had claimed his marital rights and now lay with his face buried in his pillow. ‘My father and your grandfather are probably wagering on it even now.’ He became serious, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking across at me. ‘We will do better at this too.’

I stroked my hand down over his shoulder. It pleased me mightily, all my initial irritations with him having fled. I thought that we had done well enough for a first time. It was in my mind that we should try again, and soon. It was in his too.

Wigmore Castle in the Welsh Marches, September 1301

Above my head, secured by a hook and chain, a skull was hanging, old enough to have lost most of its flesh and hair but there was still a remnant clinging to the bone. It was a gruesome object. It seemed to me that one of the cheekbones had been shattered by a blow. The jawbone on one side hung loose.

‘He died from some violence,’ I observed, determined not to be unnerved.

‘Indeed he did,’ Roger admitted with relish. ‘I thought your grandfather would have educated you in the Mortimer history in the Marches. Do you know who he is?’

‘I claim all ignorance. I am sure you will tell me.’

We had ridden north from Pembridge to Wigmore, the Mortimer castle overlooking and thus guarding the route along the Marches, a formidable fortress to the south-west of Ludlow. It was a celebratory cavalcade as I remarked to Roger, who was riding beside me, the accompanying minstrels breaking into song with much laughter and ribaldry.

‘I expect it is. They are all extortionately pleased to be escaping from Pembridge.’

I bridled. ‘No one complained.’

‘They would not, of course. It was a wedding and the ale was good.’

I huffed at such a rude comment and kicked my mare on to ride beside my mother. Roger overtook me, saluting both of us with sly grace. I did not see him again, except for his back and felt cap decorated on the brim with a rakish pheasant feather he had picked up on the way, until we arrived in Wigmore. Cúchullainn and Lugh bounded along beside him, disturbing birds which rose up with a clap of wings.

It was a steep ride beyond the church to attain the height, for the castle was sited on a long, narrow ridge, perfect for defence. It dominated the whole area, overlooking the low-lying ground and the old Roman road of Watling Street that crossed it. As well as its height it was protected by deep ditches and a series of strong walls. I looked up at them as we rode beneath the outer gateway.

My first impression of my new home: it was very much a fortress rather than a home for comfortable living. I assessed it as we rode through the outer bailey which housed stables and granaries and other buildings of general storage. Then beneath another gateway under the bulk of a vast gatehouse, we came within the curtain wall with towers to repel all comers. I had been raised to know the value of defence as well as attack and realised that this might not be as formidable as my own castle at Ludlow but was still a fortress of distinction. Once in the inner bailey I slid from my saddle, shaking out the russet-red skirts of my woollen over-tunic. Now I knew why Roger Mortimer had looked askance at my small de Geneville manor. My eye was, of course, taken by the great shell keep ahead of us. It did not promise warm accommodation within the massive structure of the round tower set on its motte. I must look to my garments before winter set in.

Roger handed his reins to a page and appeared at my side.

‘Come with me.’

It was quite definitely a command.

‘Where?’

‘I have something to show you. You said that you did not know me. I will put that right now.’

‘I know you better now than I did last week.’

I regarded him, open-eyed, waiting for his reaction. It was what I expected as he laughed, gripped my wrist and pulled me along at his side.

‘If we don’t hurry they’ll find something for us to do or sign or witness. That’s the problem of not yet being of age.’

I looked towards my mother who watched me with raised brows, but now I was wed, and as a wife I could make my own decisions. I followed him up the steps and through the arched doorway into the keep, which proved to be as dark and dank as I had expected, then on into a room opening off a spiral staircase within its walls. It was a small room with narrow windows allowing little light. He lit a lamp and lifted it high so that the shadows leapt back as I stepped across the threshold. Was this an excess of lust to renew his acquaintance with my body, despite his lively efforts at dawn before we had broken our fast? Clearly it was not, for this was no bedchamber.

‘What is this place?’

‘The Treasury.’

He was silent, hitching a hip on a coffer beside the door, allowing me to look round in my own time. Old pieces of armour and weapons, left for cleaning or wrapped in stout linen. A linen surcoat emblazoned with the gold and azure strips of the Mortimer coat of arms. Coffers that might contain treasures of great value to the family or items that were no longer in use. We had such in our own dwellings. I ran my hand over an ageing suit of chain mail.

‘They belonged to my ancestors,’ Roger explained as I picked up an enclosed helm and held it high, until he took it from me and placed it on his own head so that his voice echoed strangely from within. ‘I think that my father once wore this. It is Italian.’

I tilted my chin.

‘It becomes you. I cannot of course see your face.’

With a hoot he slid from the coffer, scooped up another metal helm and dropped it on my own head. It was too large so that I must lift it to be able to look out through the eye slits.

‘If there is a spider in here, now crawling down my neck, I will shriek,’ I warned.

‘Are you such a coward, to fear something so harmless?’

I faced him. ‘Do we wage war against each other?’ My voice was equally hollow, making me laugh.

‘Not today. Tomorrow perhaps.’ He removed my helm and his own.

‘They are dusty,’ I complained, attempting to brush away the cobwebs that had adhered to my veil.

‘I have new ones, of course.’

‘Do you keep all your family possessions here?’ I asked.

‘Not all. The important ones, the chronicles and grants and documents of ownership are stored at Wigmore Abbey where my ancestors are buried. We own the Abbey.’

There was the pride of possession.

‘Is it close?’

‘Just across the valley.’ He took my cobwebby hand and led me to the window. ‘Lean forward and look over there to the left, through the trees. You can just make out the arches and tower of the church. That is the Abbey.’

I could see the sandstone walls and roofs in the distance, of what would be