I handed my bundle and lute to be packed on the luggage wagon and checked my new saddlebag for the day’s essentials. Bidding farewell to Alys and Roger, I swung myself into Bess’s saddle. Murrey, snug in my doublet, whimpered at this sudden movement, but was settled with a word and a morsel of meat from my pouch.
Last to arrive was of course Duke Richard. He took his leave of his wife on the keep steps to protect her from the rain before mounting Storm, held there for him by Master Reynold. As the trumpet sounded and the white boar banner was unfurled, he looked up at the keep and raised a hand in salute.
Through the obscure glass of a window I spied the ghostly shape of Edward, waving, safe away from the wet and cold. A shadowy figure stood by him – Elen? I waved too, then urged Bess into a walk.
Those damp murky days on the way to London were among the most miserable of my life. After an hour or two, even the beguiling prospect of that marvellous city was dulled by the endless rain. A few riders tried to boost our spirits early on with marching songs and bawdy ballads, but even they were defeated by the rain. At the head of the company the huge banner slapped wetly against its pole with every stride as we jogged along. Eventually the Duke ordered it furled and we rode along in silence apart from the rattle of hooves and chink of harness.
Each night we lodged at an inn or great house or abbey, and roaring fires would dry out us and our gear. But the next day everyone and everything was again wet through before we had travelled out of sight of our hosts.
I rode mostly alongside an older page called Robert, who might speak to me when there was no better entertainment. But he had the air of thinking he was above a mere merchant's son, even one so favoured by the Duke. Of the Duke himself I saw very little.
One bright memory alone broke up those dreary days on the road.
We had reached a landscape of gently rolling woodlands and fields after the flat fens of the past day or two. Turning off the great road, before long we entered a village of straw-coloured stone houses huddling beneath the motte of an ancient castle.
It was not yet midday. With hours of daylight still ahead, grey and dim though it was, this couldn’t be where we would spend the night.
We clattered past the castle gates, whose guards sprang to attention at the sight of our banner – unfurled again that morning. Beyond rose a large priory church, its elegant stone tower glimmering against the lowering clouds.
It was in the priory precinct that we halted. Once we dismounted, most of the company were welcomed into the guesthouse for dinner. But Duke Richard, along with Sir Francis and his closest companions, entered the church.
Curious, I slipped into the round-columned nave after them. In a chapel to the side of the high altar, the light of many candles flickered on the bars of a cage of stone. Within stood two fine carved tombs, each topped by the effigy of a knight in full armour.
Duke Richard, his own knights about him, knelt before the tombs and the waiting monks began to recite a Mass. With choristers aplenty, I was not needed. As their voices rose in a requiem, I crept back out of the building to join the rest of the company. I asked Robert whose tombs lay within the church, but he had no idea. I was too shy to question the men. Even the Duke’s secretary, Master Kendall, who had often been friendly towards me on the journey, was solemn of face as we rode on once more.
At long last we reached London a few days before Christmas, as the bells of its many churches were ringing out for afternoon service.
Robert had been born near the city and had visited it often before joining the household at Middleham. He told me that more than four score churches lay within its walls. I could well believe it from the jangling clamour that greeted us as we trotted through the surrounding fields and farmsteads. But I hardly needed him to point out the towering spire of the Cathedral of Saint Paul. It reached hundreds of feet above everything else, almost touching the overhanging clouds themselves.
Watchmen saluted us as we passed beneath the huge portcullis of Bishopsgate, which would have dwarfed Middleham’s gatehouse, and people streamed from houses and shops, curious as to who was making such a clatter on the paving stones. Cheers rose at the sight of the Duke’s floating banner. They drowned out the hoofbeats and rippled ahead along the great thoroughfare, as more and more citizens, drawn from their work or firesides, lined our way and added their voices.
Long before we reached our final destination, I discovered that London surpassed all my expectations. It was larger, busier, noisier, filthier, smellier, smokier than anywhere else I had ever been or ever dreamed of.
The houses loomed higher above the streets, the gullies were deeper and more overflowing with rubbish, the roaming pigs, chickens and goats under our feet more numerous, the acrid smoke rising from tavern fires and pottery kilns more suffocating, the racket of smiths, butchers and street hawkers plying their trades more deafening.
Nothing about my home city of York on even the busiest market or feast day had prepared me for this. Yet I was captivated by it all, staring about me at each new wonder until the next came hard upon it.
At one turn, the vast stone frontage of a rich man’s townhouse rose from the cobbled highway. Watery sunlight glinted from diamond-paned windows, liveried men stood guard at iron-studded oak doors, fine-worked rugs waved from balconies. At the next, a stinking alley of overhanging buildings and reeking runnels belched forth a flood of downtrodden people – ragged street urchins, crippled beggars, evil-featured men who melted back into the shadows as we passed. Between them, streets lined with black-and-white wood-and-plaster houses, busy taverns with swinging signs, shop stalls with colourful fruit and vegetables, workshops crammed with pottery, ironwork or leather goods, craftsmen carrying their tools, well-fed merchants, aproned goodwives, horse-drawn wagons laden with grain or cloths edged over to the gutters out of our way, gaggles of schoolboys on their way home, staring up wide-mouthed at the splendour of our company. And everywhere the noise of shouting and hammering, and barking, and clanging, and singing, and the crowing of cocks, and the grunting and squealing of pigs, and over it all the clangour of the bells from those four score and more belfries.
Master Kendall, who was riding alongside me, laughed.
‘Close your mouth, boy, don’t gawp. You mustn’t let these Londoners think we northern folk are overawed by their paltry town.’
But overawed I was. And likely it is that my mouth was still hanging open like those of the schoolboys as we turned into a wide courtyard just off the busy thoroughfare. Delicately wrought but stout iron gates clanged shut behind us, cutting off the hustle and bustle of the street.
Before us reared a stone house of size and beauty to rival the palace of my lord the archbishop in York. This was Crosby Place, the Duke’s home in the capital.
The procession halted by a flight of steps up to the main doors, the cheering crowds faded away behind us, and before long I was seated by a crackling fire in the main kitchen of the house, clutching a very welcome, warming cup of mulled ale.
That first evening in Crosby Place was the pattern for many others of my stay in London, and in some ways like those I’d come to enjoy at Middleham.
The whole company gathered together with the London household for supper in the great hall – a lofty room, with large square windows and an intricately carved oak ceiling in what Master Kendall told me was the very newest fashion. To my surprise, throughout the meal we were entertained by musicians playing in a gallery high up on one wall. Why had Duke Richard brought me, a novice on the lute, if he already had such accomplished players in the city?
After supper, I settled down in a corner to play dice with two of the local pages, whose outlandish London accents I could just about understand. Before I had time to lose more than a few pennies to them, a serving man came to summon me to the Duke’s private chamber. I brushed down my doublet, picked up the leather case of my lute, whistled Murrey to heel, and followed the servant, all the while contentedly aware of the astonishment on th
e faces of my fellows.
When I entered, the Duke was deep in conversation with his steward. Not Master Guylford, who had remained at Middleham, but the man who looked after the Duke’s business affairs in London and had greeted him when we arrived. As ever, Master Kendall was also there to deal with any correspondence, and he waved me to a stool near the carved stone fireplace and bid me play.
I had learned few enough tunes for the lute, and these formal surroundings made me nervous of playing them badly. But I had also started to improvise my own songs, stringing together, as the fancy took me, notes and snatches of French or Spanish poetry that Doctor Frees had taught me. This I did tonight, quietly in the corner, thinking that the London steward couldn’t rebuke me, a provincial lad, for getting them wrong.
Before long, the Duke had enough of business and with a few words dismissed both men. As they bowed their way out the door, he dropped into a richly cushioned oak chair before the fire. For many minutes he stared deep into the leaping flames, his face a tired mask, a silver goblet of wine untasted in his hands.
I carried on playing softly, not singing now, not wishing to disturb him, but wondering whether he was aware I was still there. My fingers started to tire and my eyelids to droop, after our long journey and the excitement of our entry into the city. I longed to join Murrey, curled up at my feet on a sheepskin rug before the hearth.
After what seemed an age, the Duke drank deeply from his goblet, then startled me to wakefulness by asking,
‘Do you miss your family, Matthew?’
‘Your Grace?’
‘Your family. I believe you have one. A father at least. You have spoken of him.’
My face grew hot, and not from the fire. I recalled my prattling on the moor.
‘I do, yes, Your Grace. Miss them, I mean. It’s more than four months now since I last saw them.’
He rose and, going to the table, refilled his cup from a crystal jug standing there. He poured more into another beautifully wrought goblet and handed it to me.
I had to put down my lute to take it. The taste was strong and rich, like the wine my friends and I had drunk to toast the Order.
The Duke had returned to his seat and the reflection of the flames flickered once more in his eyes. Some minutes passed before he spoke again.
‘When Parliament is ended, we will return home by way of York. You may spend time with your family then. I know what it’s like to miss the ones you love.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
‘Meanwhile, tomorrow I must go to see my other family, that of my brother the King. Do you wish to join us?’
‘I should like that very much.’
‘You will see the splendours of his court in Westminster. It puts our little household at Middleham to shame.’ He took another mouthful of wine and swirled the goblet gently in his hand. ‘It has ever been my brother’s desire to have the best of everything around him, whether it be men of learning, the finest horses, wines or beautiful tapestries. He is such a man as will always get what he desires. No one can refuse him anything. It was ever that way.’
He drained the last of his wine and replaced the cup on the table. I sipped again from mine, but dared not drink more for fear I should fall instantly asleep.
As though reading my thoughts, he said,
‘Now it is time to retire. It was a long journey and a long day, and there will be another such tomorrow. You shall act the part of my personal page while we are in London, if you will, Matthew. There is none here that I trust so well as you. Ask the servants for your mattress and place it against my door. Sleep well, lad.’
I left the room in a daze, clutching my lute in one hand, in the other Murrey, still caught up in her dreams.
I hadn’t expected this. At Middleham, only the most senior pages – Hugh and his friends, perhaps Robert – had the honour to sleep each night, in turn, outside the Duke’s private chamber. In times past they would have been the last line of protection for the Duke and his family in case of attack. In these more peaceful days it was just an honorary role, of course. But at the mention of trust, pride welled up in my chest until I felt my heart would overflow.
In a very few minutes, my mattress stretched across the Duke’s doorway and Murrey draped across my feet, I settled myself down to do my duty.
Chapter 14
The Sun in Splendour
The sun in splendour. That was our lord King Edward’s symbol. Over the coming days I learnt how it mirrored his glory.
The royal barge was my first taste of it, its murrey and blue banners fluttering, trumpets blaring, oarsmen cheering, and gold-embroidered canopy and cushions glowing as it slid towards the Duke and his party. The palace at Westminster that it ferried us to was the next. It’s a wonder that Master Kendall did not continually tell me to close my gawping mouth that day, for I’m sure that once again I looked like a country bumpkin overwhelmed by everything about me.
But before all was the marvel beyond words that was the River Thames. It was all my father had told me and more. The miracle was how I stepped on to the royal barge without falling into the rushing water beneath, so busy was I staring around rather than looking to where I should safely place my feet.
As the barge slipped out into midstream, behind us loomed the great London Bridge. It spanned the enormous width of the river, supported on as many as twenty arches and crammed with shops and houses from one stone-towered end to the other. On either bank huddled wharves and warehouses, in front of them forests of cranes and masts. Then, as we rowed beyond the city wall, frontages of beautiful houses or their gardens swept down to the riverside.
All about us myriad boats glided on the shimmering water, some sporting exotic standards, others simple flags or bannerets. Many were piled high with cargo, others ferried passengers alone. Yet others were all but as glorious as ours, carrying perhaps rich merchants, churchmen or city officials about their business. All gave way at the sight of our regal craft and its score of scarlet-clad oarsmen.
It was a fine day at last, this our first in London, and the distant dazzle of winter sun in river-facing windows announced to us our approach to the royal palace of Westminster. When we arrived at the private landing stage, dozens of red and gold liveried servants scurried to our aid. The Duke and his party were welcomed by numerous gentlemen clad in the most sumptuous velvet and fur-trimmed robes, and by a fanfare of trumpets both on the barge and on shore.
The steward had instructed all squires and pages to wear our livery now we were in London. I was glad. Even in my best doublet I would have been ashamed to have been seen. I lost count of the flunkies in smart crimson who saluted the company as we passed through the myriad palace corridors, and all the servants who ducked out of our way wore spotless white shirts and aprons.
Soon we were following the Duke as he strode through a series of chambers, each more splendid than the last. Then a final pair of immense double doors parted and the heavily armoured guards on either side stamped to attention.
Without doubt opening up there before me was the throne room – the centre of all power in England.
Two huge, carved gilt seats faced us on a high dais at the far end. Above them a canopy of cloth of gold and shining embroidery was crowned by a golden sun. Winter sunlight flooding in from enormous windows in one wall shone on sumptuous tapestries on the other. Chatter and laughter soared up from the assembly of elaborately gowned courtiers into the ceiling of bright-painted timbers far above.
Upon one of the thrones sat a lady clad in blue. I could not make out her face, the room was so vast. From the other sprang a larger figure, as the blare of trumpets announced our entrance.
As I bowed with the rest of our company, this man covered the hall’s length in what seemed only a stride or two. The multitude of people fell silent and made way for him, bending their knees. In a second he had grasped the Duke’s hand, before enveloping him in a bear-like hug.
The two brothers broke apart again, and the Ki
ng swung around.
‘Gentlemen, ladies,’ he thundered, his voice filling the massive room with ease. ‘We greet our well-beloved brother, Richard of Gloucester – conqueror of the Scots!’
As deafening cheers and applause rang out, he drew the Duke’s arm through his own and led him past the crowding courtiers up to the dais, where another great chair was now set ready.
For the rest of that day there was little for me to do beyond watching and listening to the splendours unfolding around me. And of all things, the King himself appeared most splendid. All my life I had heard with delight stories of his exploits – at the battles of Towton, Barnet, Tewkesbury – and now at last before me was the man himself.
At first sight, he could not have been more different from Duke Richard, as I had become painfully aware on meeting my new lord in the late summer. The King was a golden giant of a man, magnificent in girth as well as height, and with an immense appetite for life and laughter, who blazed like the sun on his royal banner. But the more I saw them together, the more something about their eyes and gestures marked them as brothers.
A banquet had been prepared to celebrate the Duke’s arrival and his victories at Edinburgh and Berwick. As a liveried page welcomed to its lower tables, I enjoyed the best that the royal kitchens had to offer.
We dined on swan, heron and egret, which were rarely seen at Middleham, and never even at the costliest feasts my father attended for the wealthy merchants and aldermen of York. Whole suckling pigs and sturgeon steamed as they were brought to the tables. The gilded crusts of venison pies shone gold in the flare of the sunset, while sweet pastries, marchpane and sugared fruits were silvered by torchlight that came later. Many of the foodstuffs must have been brought in on foreign ships, like those tied up at the London wharves. My first taste of the rich red juice of pomegranates was one I would always remember.
The Order of the White Boar Page 12
