The Order of the White Boar

by Alex Marchant

  The Order of the White Boar

  Alex Marchant

  To

  Philippa Langley

  and

  the Looking for Richard Project team

  First published 2017

  © Alex Marchant 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Cast of characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Author’s note

  About the author

  Cast of characters

  The Order of the White Boar

  Matthew Wansford, a page

  Alys Langdown, ward of Queen Elizabeth

  Roger de Kynton, a page

  Edward, son of Richard, Duke of Gloucester*

  Elen, companion to Alys

  Middleham Castle

  Richard, Duke of Gloucester, brother to King Edward IV*

  Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, his wife*

  Sir Francis (later Lord) Lovell, the Duke’s friend and companion*

  Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the Duke’s companion*

  Lord Scrope, a neighbour*

  Master John Kendall, the Duke’s secretary*

  Master Guylford, the household steward

  Sir Thomas, the estate steward

  Sir William, the chaplain

  Doctor Frees, tutor to Edward and the pages

  Master Fleete, the weapons master

  Master Petyt, the dancing master

  Master Reynold, the horsemaster

  Master Gygges, the chief huntsman

  Hugh Soulsby, a page

  Lionel de Bruyn, a page

  Giles Pynson, a page

  Robert, a page

  At court

  Edward IV, King of England*

  Elizabeth Woodville, his Queen*

  Edward, Prince of Wales, their son*

  Elizabeth, their daughter*

  Cecily, their daughter*

  Richard, Duke of York, their son*

  Marquess of Dorset, the Queen’s eldest son by her first husband, half-brother to the Prince of Wales*

  Sir Edward Woodville, a brother to the Queen *

  Henry, Duke of Buckingham, a cousin, husband to the Queen’s sister*

  Lord William Hastings, the King’s friend and Chamberlain of England*

  Master Cornish, the Abbey choir master*

  In London

  Master Ashley, a merchant

  In York

  John Wansford, a merchant

  Frederick Wansford, his son*

  Agnes Wansford, his daughter

  Peter Wansford, his son

  John Burton, a chorister

  In the past...

  Henry VI, one-time King of England, deposed by Edward IV*

  Richard, Duke of York, father of Edward IV*

  Edmund, Earl of Rutland, brother to Edward IV*

  George, Duke of Clarence, brother to Edward IV*

  Richard, Earl of Warwick, cousin to Edward IV, known as the Kingmaker*

  * Historical figures

  Chapter 1

  Middleham Castle, 1482

  The sword smashed down just an inch from my nose, spraying my face with gravel as I sprawled on the dusty ground.

  I rolled away in desperation, hoping to scramble to my feet, my hand flailing to grab my own sword.

  But he was too quick for me.

  His heavy boot kicked away my arm, then my sword, flicking it out of reach. Then he stamped down on my chest, winding me.

  I gasped at the pain stabbing my wrist, my chest. At the fear crushing me from head to toe.

  I struggled to catch a breath, glanced from side to side, seeking a way out, any way I might escape him.

  But now he brought his sword down, down, down, in a slow deliberate arc, lining up the point between my eyes.

  The tip almost touched my nose, unwavering.

  Sunlight glinted off the length of its polished blade.

  White knuckles clenched about the hilt.

  Above, his eyes were dark slits, his mouth a pinched line. His face, usually so handsome, was deformed by hate.

  ‘Upstart!’ he hissed. ‘Runt!’

  I writhed, to left, to right, desperate to get away. But his foot still pinned me down. I was helpless beneath it.

  My breath came in short, ragged bursts. My mind raced.

  I had never seen such spite before. Why did he feel that way? What had I done?

  I had no idea, could not even guess why he hated me so.

  And still his sword was pointed at me as I lay there, gazing up at him.

  Alone.

  Defenceless.

  Hands clapped twice.

  ‘Boys, boys. Enough.’

  The weapons tutor, Master Fleete, was hurrying over.

  ‘Put up your sword, Master Soulsby.’

  Hugh didn’t move at first, as though he hadn’t heard.

  Then, slowly, slowly, his eyes holding mine, he lowered his sword from my face. Its tip traced down my throat until it rested upon the open neck of my doublet. My chest was still heaving from my fear and the fight, but I felt the tap, tap, tap as the sword point rose and fell there three times – as though mocking me in its triumph.

  Hugh stepped back, nodding his head towards me, where I lay still in the dust at his feet.

  ‘And that, Master Wansford, is how a gentleman wields a sword.’

  A smirk on his broad face, he swung round to his audience, our fellow pages. A smattering of applause broke out and he swept them a most magnificent bow, his arms wide, his knee deeply bent, his rich crimson mantle tossed elegantly over one muscular shoulder.

  He was the very picture of nobility as he stood there basking in their admiration. And I had been reminded of my place. According to Hugh, it wasn’t here, at Middleham Castle, training to become a knight.

  I eased myself to my feet and went to retrieve my sword. My shoulders were stiffening already after the battering I had taken and the light cloth of my undershirt caught painfully against bruises where Hugh’s stinging blows had landed. As I picked up the sword, I weighed its burnished chestnut blade in my hand. They might be made of wood, but these play swords could cause damage enough when wielded by someone with so much hatred in him.

  I slunk off to sit on a mounting block by the stables while Hugh joined the throng of pages and Master Fleete set another pair of boys to skirmishing with their wooden swords. Sweeping the dust and grit from my front, my fingers found holes again in the woollen fabric of my doublet where it had already been patched. My eyes stung as I remembered all the mending my mother had done before I came to my new home.

  Feet scraped on the gravel, a shadow fell across me, and to my surprise other hands began brushing dirt from the back of my doublet.

  ‘There,’ came a voice. ‘We’ll have you clean enough before the Duchess returns.’

  I blinked away my tears and looked up.

  One of the other pages stood there, a fair-haired, open-faced boy, with freckles and laughing eyes. I knew him only by sight. No older than myself, he was of course taller, as were most boys my age. He was smiling down at me.

  ‘You must not mind Hugh,’ he said after a moment when I did not speak. ‘He doesn’t mean it.’
>
  I grunted.

  ‘I fear he does.’

  ‘He is only jesting. He’s like that with all the new pages.’

  ‘Jesting?’

  I drew up my doublet and undershirt. As I thought, the bruises were growing livid, the dark reds, blues of a deepening sunset.

  ‘A fine sort of jest that leaves marks such as these.’

  But he was the first boy who’d spoken friendly words to me since I’d come to the castle.

  So I forced a smile

  ‘But perhaps he just doesn’t know his own strength. Like an ox that could break down a gate with one kick and be free, if only it had the brain.’

  The boy laughed.

  ‘Maybe. Soulsby the Dumb Ox. It has a certain ring to it. Perhaps when he is a knight he can adopt it as his badge. Vache noir on a muck brun champ.’

  I frowned up at him.

  ‘That sounds like very poor French.’

  ‘Well, I’m not much of a scholar.’ He sat down beside me, making me shuffle along the block to make room. ‘French, Latin, scripture, it’s all the same to me. I am made for dancing and sport, hawking and hunting, not classroom learning or weapons training.’

  That last was true. I had seen him fighting before my bout with Hugh and he was little better than myself.

  ‘And you, Master Wansford, what do you do well?’

  ‘I'm Matthew,’ I said. ‘Or Matt if we’re to be friends.’

  The words sounded to me as sharp as a dagger’s stab, but it was too late to bite them back. But the boy only smiled again.

  ‘And I'm Roger, Roger de Kynton, son of Sir Denys de Kynton of the King’s household. Perhaps we will be friends. So long as you don’t outshine me in all our lessons.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do anything well. I’ve been here such a short time.’

  ‘But Master Guylford said you were at the Minster School in York. Doesn’t that mean that you can sing like a bird?’

  My stomach lurched as though I’d been hit again. I had hoped that no one would discover where I had come from.

  I tried not to show it, but Roger must have seen something in my face.

  ‘Don’t worry. No one else knows. I overheard Master Guylford speaking with the chaplain before you arrived. He said you left under a cloud, but nothing more. What happened? Or do you wish to keep it a secret?’

  ‘I would prefer to. I came here to get away from it all.’

  ‘There are all sorts of rumours among the other pages about why you’re here – none of them to your credit, of course. But they’ll soon fade – rumours always do, even here. They’ll get bored of them. And if we’re to be friends, perhaps you’ll tell me another time.’

  I could have kicked myself again. No other page had spoken to me like this, and my secret could ruin everything. But I had to keep it, at least for now.

  ‘Perhaps. It’s not so very interesting.’

  ‘In that case, I’m sure I can wait.’

  A trumpet blared in the distance. Roger jumped down from the block.

  ‘But maybe our dinner can’t. Come on – we’d better hurry – they’ll be clearing away early today before Her Grace's return.’

  He grasped my elbow, pulling me with him across the outer courtyard. The other pages were already streaming through the grey-stone gatehouse into the smaller inner court. Several eyed us with curiosity as we joined them in the shadow of the massive keep beyond. But Roger only winked at me as we all filed up the covered stairs that clung to its outside wall.

  We washed our hands in the basins held by servants in the wide doorway of the great hall, then made our way to the pages’ table. As we sidled between table and bench, Roger nudged me and pointed to the high table beneath the tall arched windows at the far end.

  ‘It’s Hugh’s turn to serve Master Guylford today. See?’

  Master Guylford was the steward who ran the castle. When the Duke and Duchess were away, he sat in the Duke’s own place to preside over mealtimes. Hugh was standing very straight behind the carved oak chair at the centre of the table, his chin up, looking neither to left nor to right.

  As I watched, Master Guylford strode into the hall and on to the raised dais. In his livery of deep red and blue embroidered with the Duke’s badge of a white boar, he was an imposing figure as he stood there, raising his hands for silence. Hugh stepped up smartly, ready to push the chair forward for him to be seated. The chaplain, Sir William, was standing in front of a similar chair alongside. As the hubbub of the busy hall subsided into quiet, he bowed his head and folded his hands on his rounded belly to say grace.

  Roger put his lips close to my ear and whispered,

  ‘Hugh will become squire next year and hope then to do the same service for Duke Richard. The likes of you and me will have to settle for serving lesser men.’

  ‘But didn’t you say your father is one of the King’s knights?’

  ‘True, but lords trump mere knights. Did you not know that Hugh is nephew to Lord Walter Soulsby?’

  I shook my head. The name meant nothing to me. But after grace finished and we all sat down, Roger carried on, seeming unaware.

  ‘His lordship may have fought for the Earl of Warwick against the King, but that was more than ten years ago. Now his loyalty is not questioned and his family enjoy high honour at court. My father says Hugh and his cousin Ralph are destined for great things.’

  I glanced again at Hugh, now helping the steward to his meat. He might be only a year or two older than me, but he was far taller, broader, almost a man already. With his fine manners and rich brocade tunic, to my eyes he looked every inch a knight in waiting. I could only dream of reaching his position in life.

  I turned to my own trencher, now filled for me by a servant, and began to spoon up my mutton stew from the bread.

  Chapter 2

  The Return of the Duchess

  After the fruit and last crumbs of cheese were finished, we pages all stood while the greater members of the household filed out of the hall. As we were hustled out in their wake, the chamberlain was ordering the servants to clear away the trestle tables and strew fresh rushes on the stone floor.

  Outside, there was more commotion. Everywhere serving men and women were running to and fro, fresh white linen being carried from the laundry, clouds of dust being beaten from great tapestries. Garlands of flowers fresh from the castle gardens were draped around the buildings of the inner court and jewel-coloured pennons fluttered at windows. I had never seen so much activity since I had arrived at the castle.

  The other pages scattered as usual, the younger ones to play at tops and balls in the outer court, where they would get under the feet of the grooms and the servants. The older boys usually found a quiet corner to lounge about and chat, or went riding, or took up their bows to practise archery in the butts.

  Not belonging to either group, I generally hid myself away in the chamber shared by all the pages. There I read my books alone or, once, begging ink and parchment from the chaplain, wrote a short letter to my father. I had of course told him all was well.

  But now Roger took my arm and drew me with him, strolling under the steel teeth of the portcullis into the outer courtyard. Despite my prickliness, he seemed determined to make me his friend.

  Beyond the inner gatehouse was yet more bustle and busyness. Several waggons drawn up close by were being unloaded of chests and barrels and bundles. The horses were blowing and sweating as though they had pulled their burdens far today through the high summer warmth, and they flicked ears and tails at the clouds of flies buzzing around them.

  When the first two carts had been emptied, then led away by lads towards the stables at the far side of the courtyard, I screwed up my courage to speak.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’

  ‘Don't you know?’ Roger asked, an eyebrow raised. ‘The Duchess returns today and everything must be made ready.’

  I remembered Master Guylford and my father talking about the Duchess and the Duke on
my first evening at the castle, but I had been too excited to take anything in.

  ‘Where has she been?’

  ‘Up at Barnard Castle. She went there to see the Duke off to the Scottish wars after his meeting with the King. She’s stayed there since. I think perhaps she feels closer to him when she’s there.’

  ‘And when will the Duke himself come home?’

  Roger shrugged.

  ‘The last we heard, he had captured Edinburgh, but Berwick Castle was still under siege. It could be weeks, or months. The border castles always hold strong, though the town itself fell at the Duke’s first attack.’

  There was pride in his voice. I had heard it also in the speech of castle servants when they talked of their master. When my father and his friends in York had praised the Duke I had never paid attention – why should I listen to council talk, merchant gossip? But now he was to be my master too, I wanted to learn more.

  ‘Is he such a great warrior then?’

  ‘A great warrior? My father says there is none better in the kingdom! Well, not since King Edward turned to politics and pleasure.’ He glanced about him and lowered his voice, as though afraid that someone would hear.

  ‘The King was the finest general of his day, but it’s no secret that he now prefers life at court to campaigning. When the Scots started to cause trouble again, my father says he was planning to march north to deal with them. But he never came. It was Duke Richard who had to muster the troops and ride to battle. Do you hear nothing of events in York?’

  ‘Of course we do,’ I retorted. ‘Those troops he mustered – many of them came from York. And on his way to the war the Duke stopped in the city and was greeted by all our important men. My father was amongst them.’

  ‘So you have seen His Grace more recently than us. He rode from here in the spring and hasn’t returned since.’

  ‘No, I – my father was angry with me and wouldn’t let me out of the house.’

  I heard again the great key turning in the door’s lock and saw him walk away in the early morning light, clad in his council robes of twilight blue. I hadn’t dared climb out of the back window as I had so often before – his fury was still too fresh in my mind.