The Order of the White Boar

by Alex Marchant

  As he made his way towards me, I tried to recall to mind the names of these people who were so intimate with the King and Queen.

  The Duke of Buckingham was present, speaking with the Princess Elizabeth and Lord Hastings. The two gentlemen who had whispered in the chapel were also there. I now remembered the friendly royal page pointing them out as the Queen’s brother, Sir Edward Woodville, and her eldest son, the Marquess of Dorset, who was half-brother to Prince Edward. Others I had less luck with before the Duke took my elbow and propelled me to where the royal couple sat in the centre of the throng.

  He bowed low to the Queen and I followed suit.

  ‘Sister, this is Matthew, the boy who sang for us earlier.’

  ‘And who rescued our little nephew in the snowstorm.’ The King leaned across from his chair. ‘I have not forgotten. And how is your little hound?’

  ‘Not so little now, Your Grace,’ I ventured to reply, glancing down to where Murrey wove her slender body between my ankles.

  The King laughed and enticed her to him with one scrap, before employing another to draw her on to her hind legs to dance.

  Annoyance touched the Queen’s face, but it cleared as the Marquess bent his head to speak to her. At her nod, he rose and moved away, while she turned a cool smile on me.

  ‘Most valued service indeed, Matthew. I hope you will accept a gift of thanks from your Queen.’

  The Duke breathed a word to me and I knelt before the Queen in obedience to him, Murrey pressing close against my leg. The firelight glanced off the brass adorning the royal gift already around her neck.

  The Marquess stepped back to the Queen and handed her something. She held it out towards me.

  ‘A singer for a singer.’

  My heart almost stopped at what I saw and heard, but at a nudge from Duke Richard, my hands lifted to accept the gift.

  The sweetest, most plaintive trilling imaginable escaped from the exquisite bronze cage. Inside, on a rod of ivory, perched a finch, black and white, a flash of red at its beak, beaten gold across its wing.

  Another prod from the Duke and I stuttered my thanks, but the Queen’s attention was already elsewhere.

  I stumbled to my feet and backed away, glad no longer to have her eyes on me, but still feeling the Duke’s gaze. Dragging Murrey after me, I ducked into a corner near the table. There, among the shadows, perhaps we could avoid more scrutiny.

  The Duke fell back into conversation with the King and all around the twittering of people rose again to rival that of the birds.

  We hid in the corner, helping ourselves to fruit to stave off hunger, until it was time to depart. To my relief it was not long before the Duke pleaded fatigue and took his leave of his brother with a lingering embrace.

  We returned to Crosby Place and a quiet supper, after which the Duke had me sing for him, French courtly songs this time. Then he dismissed me with hardly a word.

  In the corridor I draped my kerchief across the cage to shield the finch from drafts, and muffle its song. Strange it was to sleep that night with two small creatures in my care.

  Chapter 17

  A Homecoming

  Within a few days our small party was clattering again beneath the grim portals of Bishopsgate. Only a few citizens scattered along the road cheered us at this early hour as the multitude of belfries rang out joyously for the first service of the day.

  My thoughts were jumbled as we left the city. Would I ever hear those four score peals of bells again?

  It was a frosty day, a sprinkling of snow once more covering the iron-hard ground. But in the village fields, the first green shoots of winter wheat pierced the earth and narrow buds fringed the twigs of tree and hedge. Spring was waiting beneath the pale grey sky.

  But whatever the weather hereabouts, I couldn’t delay. My bird was no alien, but a goldfinch. It must surely have been snared close to the city, not in our harsher northern climate. If it were to survive after its luxurious, heated captivity, it would have to be here.

  I pulled Bess to the side of the company and halted as though to attend to Murrey. Robert raised his eyebrows to me in a question, but I waved him to ride on.

  Lifting the bird’s cage from its hook on Bess’s harness, I squatted down. I kept the pony between me and the passing riders, although I had my explanation ready if anyone saw or asked after the bird.

  For all my caution, as I fiddled with the wire catch of the cage, the shadow of a horse and rider darkened the ground beside me.

  Squinting up I saw, of all people, Duke Richard astride Storm.

  His eyes took in the scene. The finch, no longer bouncing to the beat of hooves, opened its beak and golden notes tumbled out.

  The Duke’s quiet voice barely reached me over the sweet sound.

  ‘Releasing the Queen’s gift to you?’

  I drew my hands away from the cage and stood up.

  ‘Your Grace, the catch, it —’

  ‘Looks strong enough. It’s Venetian workmanship. The best.’

  A pause, broken only by the bird’s song.

  The company continued to straggle past, one or two directing curious looks at us. As always I couldn’t lie.

  ‘I was going to let it go. To say it had escaped. I meant no disrespect.’

  ‘I know that, Matt. And I suspect none would be taken – by my brother at least. All creatures prefer freedom. He understands that – or he did once. Perhaps there are some at court —’

  He broke off and swung down from his horse. Crouching down on the snowy ground, he removed his gauntlets and his strong fingers quickly released the stubborn catch. He handed the cage to me, its wire door swinging loose.

  ‘There. You shall have the honour.’

  I grasped the cage in one hand, pinning open the door with my thumb. Reaching in, I enfolded the bright bird in my fingers and drew it out.

  It rested for a moment on the palm of my hand, silent now. Then, as I gently thrust it towards the sky, it opened its wings and unsteadily took flight. It fluttered in a circle once, high above our heads, then flew away, along the road that we were following. In a few seconds it disappeared among a stand of trees up ahead.

  The Duke’s hand was on my shoulder as we watched it together. Then, without another word, he remounted and rode on to catch up the rest of our company.

  We stopped that night and each night after at the same houses as on our journey to London. This time, though, we didn’t stop at the beautiful church of the tombs. Often now I rode alongside the Duke and after we passed that turning of the road, I found the courage to ask him about it.

  ‘That place is Fotheringhay, Matt. It was my parents’ main home and the castle where I was born. When my father was killed in battle, my brother Edmund too, they were buried by their enemies at Pontefract, close to where they fell. But after my brother Edward became King, he had a suitable place made for them here. When it was ready, I followed their coffins all the long road south to their final rest. It’s where they would have wanted to be for eternity.’

  ‘Your brother Edmund?’ Another one?

  ‘Aye, Edmund. He was only seventeen when he was cut down. Hardly older than you, Matt.’

  ‘But a warrior already.’

  ‘Aye, a very fine one.’ He glanced askance at me from atop Storm. ‘Of course, he’d been training almost since he was a baby.’

  ‘A baby?’

  ‘Don’t stand so amazed, lad. He was a very big baby. At least the size of a two-year-old, our mother said.’

  I looked up at him. Of course he wore the half-smile he always did when jesting. I joined in his laughter at my foolishness, but still, I wondered about this other brother – and, as ever, that the Duke spoke to me at all. Me, a lowly page. But, as the days rolled by, his mood became lighter with all the company. As though he, like the goldfinch, had been set free from the stifling atmosphere of London – and perhaps especially the court.

  After days of travelling, and when we had left behind those tentative
signs of spring, we came to places the names of which were familiar to me. And at long last, one afternoon, when early flurries of snow had given way to weak late-winter sunlight, I spied on the horizon the twin towers of York Minster.

  This time it was my turn to point out a landmark to Robert, although his only interest in the city would be the prospect of a fire and hot dinner after a long, cold day’s journeying. But for much of the company it was a most welcome sight.

  A cheer went up, the Duke’s white boar banner was unfurled, and as one the party broke into a fast trot. I had to whistle up Murrey, nosing along in our wake, to make sure she wasn’t left behind.

  The scenes that greeted our entry into London had been memorable, but they were nothing to our reception here.

  A messenger had been sent ahead to alert the council to our arrival and all had been made ready. As we rode beneath the towering bulk of Micklegate Bar, the town band awaited us, dressed in their sky-blue livery. They led the hurrahs of the assembled townsfolk, accompanying them on shawm, sackbut and busine.

  I knew these waits from their performances on feast days past – John Swynbourne with his cheeks bulging as he blew his shawm, Walter Kirkeby’s brow furrowed in concentration, Edward Skerne joyously free in his interpretations of the ancient tunes. Their eyes widened in wonder at seeing me among this exalted company, before they turned to lead us through the streets lined with cheering people.

  The clamour was deafening as we wound our way, at walking pace now, across the Ouse bridge and through the familiar streets towards the Minster. The din of the waits and the crowds was joined by bells ringing out from all the steeples, although there was no service due. The Minster’s great bell itself tolled out high above the many-storeyed houses, their windows and doorways colourful with bannerets and streamers.

  As we passed from Conynge Street into Stonegate, I scanned eagerly ahead for a first sight of my family home. Before long, there at the window of the overhang I spotted my young mother, standing with my baby sister in her arms. I hardly recognized the baby, so much had she grown since I had last been home, and I’m sure she didn’t know me. But her little fists waved in delight at our mother’s prompting, and I saw, though did not hear, her giggle at our noisy cavalcade as we rode by. My younger brother and sister Agnes I also glimpsed among the crowds of our neighbours. Peter took off his cap and waved it to grab my attention. Agnes simply beamed at the sight of me.

  In time we reached the square before the Minster’s huge west door, where the important men of our city were gathered – the aldermen clad in their robes of brightest violet, the councilmen in blue. My eyes searched for the imposing figure of my father. There he was at last, his stern features lit up with pride at the sight of his son riding with the Duke of Gloucester.

  I’ll not dwell on our welcome by the mayor, or our grand entry into the Minster, or the Duke giving thanks to the assembled throng for their greetings. Or his whispering to me that I should slip away to spend precious time with my family. Or on the kisses and tears and hugs with which they met me, or that first evening sitting round the fire telling of my life in recent months. Or on the warnings from my older brothers not to become high and mighty, or the satisfaction they all felt that my future seemed assured.

  Any worries that my parents had had now passed. I was a favourite of the Duke, the Queen had smiled on me (I didn’t tell them of the goldfinch), I had danced with princesses, the King had rewarded me – or at least my dog. Murrey was fussed over and fed, and slept contentedly beside yet another fire.

  One small incident only marred the joy of my homecoming to York.

  On my last afternoon, when I had received word that the Duke’s party would start for Middleham early next morning, my brother Frederick took me to practise at the city archery butts. It wasn’t a skill I had excelled at since joining the Duke’s household, but I had improved since Fred last saw me and he was warm in his praise.

  I was nocking another arrow to my string when a voice just behind me said,

  ‘Well, here’s someone I didn’t expect to set foot in York again.’

  I swung round, dropping my arrow, and found myself face to face with John Burton.

  Perhaps not face to face. He had grown since our last encounter in the Minster square and now stood almost a head taller than me. Broader too. I might not be so ready to offer him my fist now.

  But Frederick, a peaceable type despite his skill with a bow, was at my elbow.

  ‘Matt has as much right to be here as anyone.’

  ‘Even after his disgrace? My father said he should have been ashamed to show his face in the Minster the other day.’

  Fred laughed.

  ‘He was there with Duke Richard. I doubt even your father would dispute the matter with him.’

  ‘My father would stand up for himself with the Duke as much as with any man. He’s not afraid of him.’

  ‘I didn’t say he should be. It’s just that Matt is in his favour and the Duke’s opinion counts for a great deal in the city.’

  ‘Huh, it would count for more if he did more for us.’

  ‘He’s persuaded Parliament to exempt us from war taxes,’ I butted in. ‘I know that. I was there.’

  ‘What, in Parliament?’ sneered John.

  ‘No, of course not. But the Duke himself told me of it afterwards.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time,’ John shot back. ‘My father says the last campaign against the Scots cost us far too much. He says the council shouldn’t be so ready to send men and money.’

  ‘It’s those men and that money that keep us all safe,’ soothed Fred. ‘Without Duke Richard, the Scots could easily raid as far as hereabouts, and disrupt our trade. They say his capture of Berwick last summer should help stop the border problems.’

  ‘And he does it all despite the pain he suffers,’ I added.

  ‘Pain?’ scoffed John.

  ‘From being in armour and on horseback on campaign. His back —’ I hesitated.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It’s twisted – all out of shape.’ Should I be speaking of this? ‘Since he was a boy. That’s what fighting for our safety has done to him.’

  John didn’t reply. He stared at me, then he picked up my arrow and turned away, nocking it to his own bow. His shot sped far wide of the target.

  My fists were balled tight.

  Fred pulled me away.

  ‘Leave him. Let’s go home. Mother is planning a special supper for your last evening.’

  We meandered back through the bustling streets towards Stonegate without speaking.

  Several passersby hailed my brother and eyed me in curiosity. Fred was becoming well respected locally now he was growing into a man. He had told me that people were asking him, wondering, at my reappearance in the city with the Duke.

  Although I was proud of my new position, my spat with John Burton and the memory of Twelfth Night that it had stirred up had left me choked and uncomfortable. I was glad when we turned into the snickleway that led towards the rear courtyard of our house. But there, away from the busy roadway, my brother halted.

  ‘Is it true? About the Duke?’

  I gazed up at him, as tall now as our father. His face was half-hidden from me in the alley’s shadows.

  ‘His back?’ I had to force the words out. ‘Yes. I saw it. One day in Westminster when we’d been riding. And he flinched so when the King slapped him on the shoulder.’

  Fred whistled as though surprised.

  ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at him. The times I’ve seen him enter the city in full armour at the head of troops.’

  ‘That’s when he says it pains him most. He spoke of it to me.’

  ‘Yet he is as upright as any knight around him. And there is no sign when he is in ceremonial robes either. Old Mother Goodwin at the market – the twist in her back is plain for all to see, no matter what her clothes, winter or summer.’

  ‘Old Mother Goodwin is over eighty,’ I retorted. ‘Fa
ther says her back is arched from carrying baskets and bundles on it all those years. The Duke’s is different, the backbone just twisted a little to the side. I only know it because I helped him remove his undershirt to wash, after his servants had retired to bed.’

  All those weeks I had tried to shut out what I had seen. My unease must have shown on my face. Fred’s expression changed.

  ‘And it hurts him, you say, when he’s soldiering? And yet he spends so much of his time at war. Father says he told the council the King may send him to fight the Scots again this summer. Also that Parliament has granted him all the Scottish borderlands from which to do it. And he said York won’t be taxed next time to pay for it. The councilmen all cheered when he said that, for all John Burton said.’

  ‘The Duke said it would be good news for the city.’

  ‘But did he also tell you what else it means? That the Earl of Northumberland will have less reason to interfere with our affairs now? Father said the council welcomed that news almost as warmly. No wonder they laid on such a feast for the Duke that night.’

  I nodded, although I had no real idea what he meant. City politics had always flown clear over my head when our father railed about them. Perhaps my bewilderment was obvious to Fred, as he said,

  ‘But enough of that, little brother. Whatever the shape of Duke Richard’s back, he’s done well for us, and especially for you. I know father will wish to toast him for that at supper. Let’s get in now – I think I smell roast goose.’

  My new mother had indeed prepared a memorable meal to bid me farewell that evening. And tears shed by her and Agnes mingled with the toasts to my good fortune.

  Next morning my father accompanied me to the ancient friary where the Duke lodged, and where Bess was waiting for me, saddled and ready, among the assembling company.

  He helped me to mount, then, as I adjusted my seat, grasped my sleeve, forcing me to look down at him.

  ‘You have done well, son. We’re all proud of you. Carry on serving your master loyally.’

  ‘I will, father – always.’