Dear Reader

Winter is not being kind to Middleham, and neither, as it turns out, is Warwick's arithmetic.

If you have not yet read last week's letter, now is the time. Look back in your inbox for "A plot twist in my own life and a short story Part 1" and you will find where Joan Redmayne first crossed the Kingmaker's path. Nothing below is spoiled by reading it first.

One note before we go on. This story stands entirely on its own. It is not part of Lochlainn, and it is not part of Blood of the Bear. Before Alice, there was Joan, and her story lives here, in these two letters, and nowhere else.

THE SNOW AT MIDDLEHAM

A Short Story, Part Two

Winter 1461 – A Warwick Story

The next morning brought clearer skies, though the cold was deeper, sharper. Warwick had been at his table since dawn, reading two more reports from his northern riders, both filled with the usual evasions and half-truths. Hawes denied everything. Naturally.

A knock came at the solar door.

“Baron William Redmayne, my lord,” Denby announced.

“Send him in.”

Redmayne entered with snow on his boots and his cap already in his hands. He bowed deeply, grateful and uncomfortable in equal measure to be summoned to a private audience.

“My lord, forgive the intrusion. I had not expected…”

“I summoned you, Baron,” Warwick said. “Sit.”

Redmayne obeyed, as he always did, a dependable, middling man who was loyal because he feared the consequences of disloyalty. The kingdom was built on such men.

“I hear,” Warwick began, “that you fear to send coin by the eastern road.”

Redmayne swallowed. “My lord, two of my men disappeared. I believe… I fear… someone means to rob us deliberately. I have done all I can…”

“You have done what you are able,” Warwick corrected. “And what you are able is limited. That is no fault. A small barony cannot police an entire region.”

Redmayne looked up, as if he had misheard.

“I will look into it myself,” Warwick continued. “For now, the arrears are… noted but not punished. You will not be pressed further until the matter is resolved.”

The baron's shoulders came down from about his ears. He bowed his head. “My lord, I cannot thank you…”

“I did not say the matter ends there,” Warwick said. “There is… another question.”

He let Redmayne sit in the quiet a while and watched him grow less comfortable in it.

Then he asked, in the tone of a man enquiring after the weather:

“Your daughter, Lady Joan. Is she married? Betrothed?”

Redmayne sat straighter. “She is not, my lord.”

“No arrangements made? No promises?”

“None,” Redmayne said. “Her mother died before she could finish the negotiations she hoped for. And with our lands so stretched…” Shame coloured his cheeks. “I had little to offer.”

Warwick nodded once, as if confirming a line in an account.

“She handled herself well yesterday,” he said. “Better than most men twice her age. She sees more than she lets on.”

“Joan has always kept the household accounts,” Redmayne said. “She is… capable.”

“Indeed.” Warwick folded his hands behind his back. “Which is why the King's household, and mine, require such capability.”

Redmayne looked up sharply.

“My lord?”

“There is a family I intend to watch closely,” Warwick said. “Their loyalties are untidy and their past is… inconvenient.”

He did not say the name Talbot.

He did not have to.

“A bride of solid northern stock will steady the household,” Warwick said. “And your daughter will benefit from a husband of good name. It will raise her position. Secure yours.”

Redmayne stared at him and said nothing. He was not clever, but he was not a fool, and he understood.

“My lord,” he said, “Joan does not know…”

“She will be informed in due time,” Warwick said. “By you.”

He stepped closer and lowered his voice, not to threaten but because what came next was a matter for the two of them alone.

“You wish for protection on your roads and relief from your arrears. You wish for the goodwill of your overlord.”

He let that stand.

“And I wish for your daughter's service.”

Redmayne wet his lips. “Service, my lord?”

“Not public service,” Warwick said. “Not court duties. Nothing dishonourable.”

He looked to the window, where snow rode past in thin sheets.

“Simply eyes and ears. She notices things, in ledgers and in men, and that is a skill wasted in a quiet hall.”

Redmayne swallowed. “And if she refuses such… duties?”

Warwick looked back at him.

“Lady Joan is sensible,” he said. “She will not refuse.”

Redmayne bowed his head, not broken but subdued. The decision was made for both of them.

Warwick dismissed him with a nod. “You will receive a formal letter within a fortnight. With the names and the arrangements. For now, return home before the next snow.”

Redmayne rose. “Thank you, my lord. I… I hope Joan will not disappoint you.”

Warwick allowed himself a small smile.

“She will not.”

The baron left, and the room was quiet again.

Warwick turned back to the window. Snow swept across the castle yard, curling around battlements, shaping drifts like dunes. Men moved through it bent against the wind.

He sat at his table, drew a sheet of parchment toward him, and dipped his pen.

To Baron William Redmayne…

His hand paused.

Then he began the letter that would, in time, find its way into Joan's hands.

END OF PART TWO

Until next time, with ink-stained fingers,

Augusta

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