Sacrifice by David Pilling Page A

chairs available, and a thin carpet over the black and red tiles. A large square window, with two smaller arched windows flanking it, looked out over a small garden.
       Maud put the table between herself and Jack, with the large window behind her. “How do you know my true name?” she demanded.
    There was a pewter jug on the table, a pair of wooden platters and two sets of eating knives. If it came to it, she could snatch one of the knives to defend herself. Her dagger was still in the drawer of her bedside cupboard at The Cardinal’s Hat. Maud silently cursed her folly in not returning to the brothel to fetch it.
       Jack folded his arms and leaned his broad back against the wall. “My mistress told me, of course,” he replied, slowly looking Maud up and down. There was no lust in his deep-set brown eyes, just careful curiosity.
       “And is she in the habit of sharing all her secrets with servants?”
       “You know her better than that, I think, or should do.”
       “Then why…”
       Maud stopped. She had caught the sound of light footsteps on the stair in the hall. The door to the dining room stood ajar. Jack hurried to pull it wide open, and touched his brow in respect as his mistress soft-footed into the room.
       Lady Margaret de Vere was a short, plump woman, her youthful good looks hardened by age and suffering. By Maud’s reckoning, she was past forty by now, and looked a decade older. She wore no headdress, and her hair was iron-grey, severely scraped back and pinned into a bun.
       The rest of Margaret’s apparel was equally severe. Fashion had passed her by, and her long-sleeved blue gown was made of coarse wool, with no laces, silks or furs. The gown, like its owner, looked worn with use.
       Her hard little eyes swiftly took in the scene. “Elizabeth,” she said, “I saw you from the window of my bedchamber. You should not have dithered in the street like that, girl. There are more spies in this city than fleas on a stray dog.”
       Maud fought an overpowering desire to curtsey. “Apologies, my lady,” she mumbled, “I didn’t know whether to come.”
       “But you made the journey here. I heard about your brother. I am sorry. Your family has suffered much.”
       No more than yours , thought Maud. Margaret de Vere’s father, the old Earl of Warwick, had been killed at Barnet, fighting against his former friend King Edward. Her father-in-law and his eldest son were both executed by the Yorkists, and her husband, John de Vere, was a prisoner in Hammes Castle in France.
       All our menfolk have gone and left us to carry on the fight. Our weapons need to be more subtle.
       Margaret clasped her bony hands together and moved towards the table. She walked with a light, deliberate step, as though afraid of breaking something.
       “Sit,” she ordered Maud, “you look hungry. Theresa’s girls always looked hungry. Evil woman. She grows fat on the profits of misery.”
       “Bread, cheese and wine,” she added with a snap of her fingers at Jack, “and be quick about it.”
       The old serving-man ducked his head and winked at Maud as he stepped out to the kitchen.
       Maud warily sat on one of the chairs, still with her back to the window, and waited for the other woman to speak again. Margaret said nothing for a time, but studied her through narrowed eyes.
       “How did you know I was still in London?” she rapped out suddenly, her voice full of suspicion.
       “I didn’t,” Maud replied, “I just hoped.”
       “Hoped, did you? You should know better than to hope. What hope is there in a brothel?”  
    She tapped her index finger on the table. “You should have come with me, all those years ago, when I offered. I would have taken you back to Norfolk. A hard life, perhaps, but a respectable one. In time, I may have found you a decent husband. No man with any pride would touch you now. Soiled goods.”
       Maud swallowed the insult, not