The Order of the White Boar

by Alex Marchant

  At the banquet Duke Richard sat on one side of the King, while to the other was the fair-haired blue-gowned lady I had glimpsed in the throne room. The Queen was famed as a wondrous beauty, but a cool stillness set her apart amidst the revelry. To either side were several boys and girls, her sons and daughters. A page sitting alongside me pointed some out to me.

  ‘Next to the Queen is Edward, the Prince of Wales. He’s to be at Westminster throughout the Christmas season, I hear. His sister Cecily sits next to him. The younger boy to the other side is Prince Richard, and there is the Princess Elizabeth, helping your Duke to the sugared fruits. They say she is betrothed to a prince of France.’

  The Princess Elizabeth appeared three or four years older than me, and with fair hair and light eyes was very like her mother. But even at this distance, I saw her catch her father’s eye, and she threw back her head and laughed with a similar freedom. On first sight, her brother Edward, our Ed’s cousin, showed more reserve, helping serve his mother in a quiet way. But in truth I was too far from the royal party to describe them well.

  On the journey back that evening, I planned to compose in my head a letter to my friends at Middleham, describing all I had seen, ready to put quill to parchment on our arrival. But the flickering of torches on the barge, and the glow of lamps on other boats sliding through the midnight water, was so mesmerizing, and I was so full of meat and drink, that Master Kendall had to shake me awake when we reached our landing stage back in the city.

  I stayed awake as we rode through the dark streets, with our guards alert to any robbers lurking in the shadows, but once back at Crosby Place I was too sleepy to begin to write. Grateful that the Duke retired at once to his chamber, I was content again to lay my head down on my mattress outside his door and drift back into sleep.

  *

  As my stay in London lengthened, I was to see more of the court and its inhabitants. Throughout, I attended the Duke and sang at Mass each morning, then was allowed to do as I pleased until he should want me in the evening. Not knowing the city, or trusting myself to stay safe within it, I was at a loss as to what to do. I missed the routine of the Middleham household almost as much as I did my friends.

  After a day or two Master Kendall took pity on me and brought me under his wing. Once again my Minster school handwriting proved useful as he set me to copying simple letters and documents for the household. He also lent me writing materials for my letters to my friends. Attached to him, I also became part of the Duke’s company when he made visits on business within the city or attended official receptions – none of which, of course, matched our arrival at court. So it was a matter of course that I should accompany the Duke and his entourage when they moved to the palace of Westminster as honoured guests of the King for the Christmas season itself.

  At the palace, I wandered its labyrinthine passages as far as my livery allowed.

  I was a regular visitor in the cavernous kitchens with their heady aromas of fresh-baked bread and pastries, pig or deer roasting slowly on a spit. The kitchen boys were ever eager to tempt Murrey with morsels of whatever they had to hand. I also found the music room. The tutor, deserted for the holidays by his pupils in the royal family, delighted in teaching me new songs and tunes for my lute. And in the stables I lingered for hours, breathing in the scent of fresh sweet hay and horse sweat. But I never summoned up the courage to ask for a quiet pony suitable for me, Bess not having been brought from London with the lords’ horses.

  While I lurked there, sometimes Duke Richard would set out for the pleasure of a gallop in the countryside around Westminster. Often he rode with Sir Francis – now made a lord as a reward from the King – or a company of courtiers, only once or twice with the King. I watched them until the last rider was out of sight, and hours later I would watch them ride back again, laughing and calling to each other. Once dismounted, they tossed their reins to stable boys – boys like me.

  I was an outsider still – not quite servant, nor one of the palace household. But I was always included with the rest of the guests, no matter how lowly, in the sumptuous Christmas festivities. In the whirl of that time – those days and nights of elaborate feasting, of courtly dancing, of minstrels, of jewelled gowns for the ladies, jewel-coloured velvets for the gentlemen, of gorgeously decorated chambers, draped with swags of greenery and berries, of laughter and jesting and masques – I saw a great deal of the royal family and their courtiers. And as the days passed I also saw a change in Duke Richard.

  During Christmastide his morning routine altered hardly at all. I would hear him stir early within his chamber and would rise and hurry to the palace chapel to meet with the other choristers, all of them grown men. The Duke would gather with other devout household members to hear the Mass, the usual polyphony supplemented for this season by laude delivered by solo treble – me.

  Rarely did the King attend – or any of his close family. Many of the company were still abed long after the service, and even breakfast, ended. The festivities of the night before were responsible for that. At such times the Duke settled himself to conduct business with Master Kendall or simply in the palace’s magnificent library to browse the hundreds of volumes there. I would follow him like a shadow in case I could be of service. Day by day the lines deepened on his forehead.

  When he spotted me there, watching, his face would clear and he would beckon me forward, showing me some passage or illustration from his book. Sometimes he would ask me to read to him, just as his son often did. In his case, though, from time to time he would correct my French as though he were Doctor Frees. This I didn’t mind – the language was often spoken at court and he told me he had travelled much abroad in his youth. Only later did I learn that he had been exiled on the continent for a time a dozen years before, when his brother had briefly lost his kingdom during the Kingmaker’s rebellion.

  In the evenings I was caught up in all the entertainments, even in the dancing. I silently thanked Master Petyt for teaching me enough that I didn’t embarrass myself. I even clasped hands with the younger princesses and their ladies as we wove our way through the elaborate steps.

  The Duke and his brother often watched from the edges of the dance, seldom taking part themselves. Once, his eyes on me, the Duke leant to speak close in the King’s ear. The King roared with laughter – it reached my ears even above the music – then nodded to me when next I circled round before them. There was nothing unkind about the laugh, warmth even in the King’s blue eyes, so like those of his brother. But I did wonder what had passed between them.

  After a late supper had been served, and the musicians packed away their instruments, the Queen was always the first to rise and retire to her chamber. These were the times I came closest to her, as she processed the length of the hall, graciously accepting the bows and good wishes of the company, her eldest daughters and son trailing in her wake.

  I bent my knee with the others. The torchlight glinted off threads of silver in her golden hair, cast shadows in the lines etched around eyes and lips, limned the puffiness about her jaw, the thickening of her waist. But she was a beauty still.

  Prince Edward, a little less than my age, but taller of course, would follow her with a stiff gait, tired but reluctant to leave. His elder sisters, gilt-haired like their mother, dutiful but rebellious, looked as though they would have danced all night. The younger children were not usually seen so late.

  As our visit wore on, Duke Richard rarely outstayed the Queen. He might share a final toast with the King, or a brief conversation with his brother’s great friend Lord Hastings. But as the drinking and laughter became more raucous, he would take his leave. Few ladies remained by that stage. One who always did was a Mistress Shore, whose husband seemed never to be present. Often the last thing that met my eyes as I followed the Duke away was that lady refilling the King’s or Lord Hastings’s goblet.

  On such evenings, the Duke would ask me to sing before his body servants readied him for bed. A French courtly love
song was usually his choice, but sometimes he would enquire what tune the music tutor had taught me that day. My errors brought a smile, not a rebuke. Then he would dismiss me to arrange my mattress. Some nights, after his servants left, I heard him pacing his chamber before sleep overtook me.

  By the time Twelfth Night arrived, I sensed the Duke was heartily sick of life at court. He left the revels earlier each night, his eyes shadowed even in the flare of the torchlight, and he spoke more sharply to the servants.

  To tell the truth, I was also chafing to leave the confines of the palace. I had little to occupy me beyond being useful to the Duke or Master Kendall. I even missed the broad moors around Middleham and cantering with Alys and Roger across the scrubby heather, Murrey and Shadow scampering at our heels.

  On that last day of Christmas I was leaning on Storm’s stable door, missing my friends and Bess, when from behind me came the yap of pleasure Murrey would make when tossed a morsel of food. As I swung round, she was rolling on her back, exposing her belly to be tickled by a boy crouching there.

  Although his face was hidden, I recognized him, this boy with the richly embroidered riding cloak and shock of fair hair. I knew him, though I had never spoken to him. This was Ed’s cousin, also Edward, he who would be king some day after his father.

  I watched, saying nothing, while Murrey wriggled on her back in raptures. The boy giggled with delight and reached inside his pouch to fish out another tidbit.

  Murrey twisted back on to her feet in an instant and sat upright, alert. As he offered her the treat, she pulled her lips back from her sharp little teeth and delicately took it from his fingers. He fondled her ears and raised his head. His eyes shone despite the dim light.

  ‘Is she yours?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘She’s a pretty hound. Are you training her yourself?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  He straightened up. Murrey, seeing there would be no more food, sidled over to lie down at my feet.

  ‘You’re not a stable boy, with a hound like that. Who are you?’

  ‘No, Your Grace. I’m here as part of the Duke’s party.’

  ‘The Duke? Oh, my uncle Richard.’ He gazed at the bustle of the grooms all around us. ‘My father said to meet them both here to ride out this morning. It’s the last day before my uncle leaves us.’

  I tried not to smile too broadly.

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace? I’m sure he’ll miss the pleasures of the court when he goes.’

  The Prince’s eyes flicked back to mine.

  ‘You think so? I fancy my uncle finds less to enjoy here than many another man would. My father tells me he doesn’t like life in the city. My mother says —’

  But what else the Duke’s family said about him was lost in commotion as the King and his brother entered the stables with several gentlemen. The stable men ceased their work and bowed low. I shrank back into the shadows, drawing Murrey with me.

  The newcomers stamped their boots on the straw-strewn floor. The Duke’s brown hair was starred with fresh snowflakes.

  ‘Come now, Ned,’ I heard him say. ‘You promised to ride with me today.’

  ‘In this?’

  The King sounded surprised, but no more than I felt. Though the clouds had promised snow as I crossed the courtyard earlier, through the doorway I saw that very little had yet fallen. It barely covered the cobbles. It was a poor apology for snow compared with what was usual at home.

  ‘Once you wouldn’t have let any weather stop you riding.’

  The King laughed and spread his arms wide, lifting his cloak away from his broad frame.

  ‘Once I wasn’t so tormented by the effects of good living.’

  The Duke turned away from his brother. From my dark corner a twist of emotion was visible on his face, but his voice didn’t betray it.

  ‘Perhaps not. But maybe that would be a reason to go.’

  ‘Because I have put on a pound or two since last we met?’ The King appealed to his son. ‘Edward, do you think me stout? Like an old warhorse who should be put out to grass?’

  ‘Of course not, father.’

  The boy laughed along with his father, and for the first time I was struck by a likeness between them. But, as I glanced back at the King, in the harsh glint of the winter daylight stealing in from the open doorway, not soft flattering candlelight, I saw him as perhaps his brother did. And not all the fabulous fashions in the world, the costly brocades and slashed sleeves, the gleaming gems, the thunderous voice and laughter, could disguise the roll of fat peeking above his collar, his broad fleshy face, the redness about his eyes, the puffy fingers of the hand he now placed upon his son’s head.

  ‘And yet, as both my son and my brother are soon to leave us, it would be a shame to pass up this chance to ride together. Saddle our horses!’

  As the grooms scurried to do his bidding, young Edward hung back.

  ‘But, father…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I – I would rather not.’

  ‘Rather not ride? With us? Why so?’

  The Prince eyed the assembled company. Lord Hastings was there, his girth and magnificence almost rivalling that of the King, and several other gentlemen I couldn’t name. None of the ladies of the court had chosen to ride this morning. The Duke was by some years the youngest there.

  ‘There’s no one… there’d be no one I could talk to.’

  With another guffaw, the King clapped his son on the shoulder.

  ‘Do you hear that, gentlemen? My son thinks his elders and betters poor company. Or perhaps he misses the pretty ladies in his uncle Rivers’s household.’

  Edward’s face reddened.

  ‘It’s not that, father. It’s just that —’

  ‘What about that boy? Skulking there in the shadows. Who is he?’

  To my horror, the King stepped over and hauled me out of my hiding place. I stood there, all eyes upon me, trembling. Murrey stuck close to my ankles, a small growling deep in her throat.

  ‘Will he do?’

  Edward said nothing, only stared at me.

  Duke Richard came up to the King’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s my boy, Ned. His name’s Matthew.’

  ‘The lad who was dancing so properly with Cecily last night?’ The King peered down at me, the trace of a smile on his face reminding me of the Duke. ‘If he rides and talks as prettily as he dances, young Ned should have no objection. Edward?’

  He glanced across to his son. I was grateful that he didn’t see my blush.

  Prince Edward nodded. He bent down to pat Murrey and sneak her another tidbit, then disappeared after the grooms.

  I slipped after the Duke as he led Storm, now saddled, out of the stable.

  ‘Your Grace?’

  My voice was hardly above a whisper, but it was enough to catch Duke Richard’s ear. The horse’s hooves rang as he halted on the frozen cobbles.

  ‘Yes, Matthew?’

  ‘Your Grace, I have no horse.’

  He waved a hand back towards the stable building, awash as it was with grooms and their charges.

  ‘There are horses aplenty here.’

  ‘But – but, Your Grace, Bess is back at Crosby Place. And these horses —’

  ‘And these are all king’s horses that might dance too prettily?’

  I nodded, my cheeks burning once more. But his words were as quiet as my own.

  ‘There’s no shame in it, lad. You were not born to this.’

  His eyes held mine for a second, then he looped his horse’s reins over his arm.

  ‘You shall have Storm.’

  ‘But, Your Grace —’

  ‘Up you go.’

  He stooped before me, his hands laced together. Before I could protest again, he boosted me into the saddle. Gazing up at me, he murmured,

  ‘He isn’t Windfollower, Matt. He will bear you safely – so long as no falcons are flown at his feet.’

  A hint of a smile touched his face as h
e called,

  ‘Ned, that colt you were telling me of. I will try it, if it can be made ready.’

  The King, now astride an enormous bay charger, reined it around to face his brother. One eyebrow rose as he caught sight of me.

  ‘Your horse to a page, Dickon?’

  ‘He’s not just a page, Ned. He is my son’s friend – and a fine singer. You should come to listen one morning. And he also saved Ed’s life. He may take my horse with pleasure.’

  The countryside we rode through that day could hardly have been more different to that around Middleham – gently rolling heathland, dotted with small villages, farms, woodlands. But I barely noticed. For here I was, riding, not just with a Duke, and on his highly bred charger, but also with the King of England and his son, the Prince of Wales. What would my father think of that?

  If only I had the skill to sketch the scene for him, as Ed did. He sent small drawings in his letters to me of all I was missing at Middleham – Alys training Shadow, Lady on Roger’s wrist, Elen sitting reading one of my letters. Yet could anyone capture in mere ink the excitement of riding such a horse as Storm, in the wake of these great men of the kingdom, while chatting with nonchalance to the heir of that kingdom – about hounds, hawking, hunting, my impressions of the court?

  The highlight came when the King, who had been riding between Lord Hastings and Duke Richard on his borrowed horse, reined back until Edward and I caught him up.

  ‘Master Wansford,’ he said, as I attempted an inelegant bow from atop Storm, ‘my brother has told me how you saved my little nephew on the boar hunt. I thank you – and be assured, my family will ever be in your debt.’

  I stammered out my thanks and bowed from the waist again, hearing a tiny yelp of complaint from Murrey tucked up in my doublet. The King smiled and touched the tip of his riding whip to his hat before cantering forward once more to the head of the company.

  How could I possibly describe my emotions at that moment using dry words scribed on parchment? Perhaps such a tale would best be told in person on our visit to York after Parliament ended. My father would surely change his mind about me then.