by Robyn Young
Also by Robyn Young
The Insurrection Trilogy
Insurrection
Renegade
Kingdom
The Brethren Trilogy
Brethren
Crusade
Requiem
Sons of the Blood
Robyn Young
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Robyn Young 2016
The right of Robyn Young to be identified as the Author of the Work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 77774 1
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
Acknowledgements
Thank you, as always, to my agent, Rupert Heath, and to Nick Sayers, my editor at Hodder & Stoughton, for believing in me – even when I doubt myself. My gratitude goes to the fantastic team at Hodder, with a special shout out to Kerry Hood and Lucy Upton, but no less of a thank you to everyone there whose support I continue to appreciate enormously.
Thank you to Dan Conaway at Writers House and Meg Davis at the Ki Agency, and a big round of applause to Camilla Ferrier at the Marsh Agency and all who have worked so hard to wing the books beyond these shores. And, of course, thanks as ever to all my publishing teams overseas.
I am much indebted to Kirsten Claiden-Yardley for reading the manuscript so thoroughly and saving me from historical howlers, and to fellow wordsmith, Harry Sidebottom, for hunting the halls of Oxford and finding me such an expert. Any mistakes that remain are my own to bear. My appreciation also goes to Alison Weir for listening patiently to my plot and for not rolling around on the floor with laughter.
My gratitude goes to Michael Buckmaster-Brown for the incredible experience with black powder weapons (and for making sure I didn’t shoot myself). And a thank you also to the very helpful Yeoman Warder in the Tower of London for pointing out the old staircase that might have led – in the princes’ time – from the Garden Tower (now known as the Bloody Tower), to the Wakefield.
Last, but by no means least, my love and appreciation go to all my friends and family who have shared in the journey and cheered me along on both fair and foul weather days. But most especially my love to Lee. Thank you, darling, for everything.
For Grandad, for the stories
Contents
Acknowledgements
Map
Dedication
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Author’s Note
Character List
Bibliography
About the Author
INSURRECTION Trilogy
Chapter 1
They came for him at dawn, riding hard along the Roman road. The rising sun sparked gold off sword pommels, flashed its fire in the curved blades of axes. Beneath the billow of mud-spattered cloaks the padded bulk of the soldiers’ brigandines were clearly visible. The men pricked their palfreys bloody, their muscles straining with the unrelenting pace, blisters raw on the ridges of palms even through the leather of their gloves. The damp and brittle air turned the horses’ breaths to plumes that gusted white through flared nostrils. Patches of hoarfrost that mottled the road were smashed to splinters by pummelling hooves.
No banners were raised above the company and they wore no livery, anonymity as well as haste their ally this April morning. Where Watling Street cut its blade-straight course towards the Great Ouse, the last of the sentries who had ridden on ahead to silence any word of their coming joined the company and, together, the horsemen thundered towards the small market town of Stony Stratford and the object of their race: the boy who had become king.
Thomas Vaughan pushed open the inn door, shielding his eyes from the morning’s gold glare. It was market day and the thoroughfare outside the Rose and Crown was busy. Stepping into the bustle, he made his way down the street. It was still early, but the spring sun, gleaming full on the whitewashed façades of buildings, held a burgeoning warmth. Its brightness was reflected in the faces of the merchants who called to passers-by. Most of those who thronged the street had been up for several hours already, in workshops or out in the fields. They had now come looking for a meal to break their fast, drawn by the smell of grease-mottled pies and cauldrons of stewed meat and barley.
As Vaughan moved through the crowd, he sensed many eyes on him and the calls of traders came loud and eager in his direction. Although his hose and boots were stained with horse sweat after the ride from Ludlow and his clothes made for travel rather than style, in his feathered cap and richly brocaded doublet and cloak he still cut a striking figure among these men and women in their workday drab. Despite the unwanted attention, it felt good to be out and moving. He’d been awake long before dawn, unable to sleep, and the restlessness that had curled tight in him had only grown with the slow-passing hours.
It was hard to put his finger on the exact reason for his unease. The news that had reached them after the sudden death of the king – of angry scenes in London between the queen-dowager, Elizabeth Woodville, and allies of her brother-in-law, the Duke of Gloucester, over arrangements for the coronation – was unwelcome, but not unexpected. It was a difficult time and tempers would be heated by the fires of uncertainty. Maybe it was something in Gloucester’s dogged insistence that he join their company to escort his nephew into London that had spiked a nerve in him? Or maybe, Vaughan reasoned, he was looking for threats where there were only shadows. With all that had happened this past year – events that had left him looking over his shoulder, waiting for a blade in his back – it was unsurprising his trust had been frayed.
Still, caution was often a better friend than imprudence, something he’d learned well in his sixty-thre
e years, which was why, yesterday, when Gloucester’s invitation for their company to dine with him in Northampton had arrived, it was agreed that Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, would go alone to assess the duke’s intentions before they merged their parties for the planned procession into London. Rivers, the new king’s uncle and governor, had left late in the afternoon to ride the eighteen miles north. A number of his men had gone with him, while the rest of the royal escort fanned out into nearby hamlets to find beds for the night, leaving young Edward in Stony Stratford with just a small band of guards and servants, his half-brother Richard Grey, and Vaughan, his chamberlain.
Ahead at a crossroads, where the stalls and crowds thinned, the street was dominated by the monument that honoured Queen Eleanor. The pale stone of the gothic arches that surrounded the statue of the long-dead queen seemed to glow in the sunlight. A magpie was perched on the cross that crowned it. There were twelve such memorials on the road from Lincoln to London, erected two centuries ago by King Edward I to mark the places where his wife’s body had rested on its way to burial. Passing the monument, Vaughan made his way towards the Great Ouse that looped, serpentine, through the meadows, its waters almost encircling the town.
Here, the hum of the market faded into birdsong and the rush of breeze through the oak trees. Some distance away, a bridge arched over the river. There was a cart standing stationary on it. The driver had dismounted and was talking to the men who manned the tollbooth. The faint jingle of a bridle sounded as one of the sumpter horses harnessed to the wagon tossed its head. Beyond, Watling Street continued north, disappearing into the soft haze of a wood. Vaughan paused, scanning the distant trees. The innkeeper of the Rose and Crown had been keen with questions about the fair-haired youth they were escorting, whispers of a royal visitor rippling through the town. The sooner they were on their way to the capital the better. Not just for the protection it offered. England’s throne had stood empty for three weeks now and Vaughan knew all too well how easily the ambitions of men could be inflamed.
Turning his back on the deserted road, he retraced his steps. God grant him patience. They would be here soon enough. Then, the boy would be anointed at Westminster and the great work Vaughan had undertaken this past decade, at the sacrifice of so much else, would come to fruition. As the stone monument loomed ahead, he thought of the man who had raised it in days when the House of Plantagenet had been united in strength. The bloodline of that king had flowed and divided down all the years since, twisting and turning its way through the descendants of John of Gaunt, until it had flowed into another long-shanked warrior king named Edward – the fourth of that line.
For nigh on twenty years, Vaughan had watched the great houses of Lancaster and York, two rival branches of the Plantagenet dynasty each with sons destined to be king, rip one another to bloody shreds across English soil as they battled for the throne, feeding a host of worms with the flesh of their fallen and forging the cold-tempered steel of hate in a new generation of men. He had the scars of that war etched on his body and in his soul. With the peace that dawned a decade ago with King Edward’s second reign it had seemed England might yet be graced by another long and splendid rule. But now Edward – Rose of Rouen and white hope of York, hero of Mortimer’s Cross and bane of Lancaster – was dead. The king had survived the hellfire of battlefields only to linger too long on a fishing trip and let the cold and damp seep into his bones. The malady had taken him just weeks before his forty-first birthday. His body, swollen by the insatiable appetites that overshadowed his last years, was now entombed at Windsor, leaving his twelve-year-old son and heir to claim his crown. Another minority. They had seldom served this kingdom well.
The rumble of hooves turned Vaughan’s attention sharply back to the road. Horsemen were cantering out of the woods, heading for the bridge. His expectation rose, then sank again as he realised the riders were clad in plain black cloaks and tunics. None wore the colours of Earl Rivers, nor Gloucester or Buckingham for that matter. It was, however, an arresting sight: fifty or so riders coming at speed, horses kicking up mud, the glint of weapons unmistakable. Vaughan squinted, searching for familiar faces, but the company was too distant and his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. He glimpsed the blood-bright flash of a scarlet cloak within their midst, telling him there was at least one noble among them.
The riders slowed as they neared the bridge, where the cart was stalled. Vaughan heard a shout.
‘Move aside! Move aside for the Duke of Gloucester!’
Fear slid a cold fist into Vaughan’s gut. This wasn’t the duke’s promised stately entourage, come to escort the new king to London. There were no banners or liveries, no sign of Rivers – just spur-pricked horses and armed men in nameless black. The knot of unease unravelled through him. Turning, he began to run.
Back through the rows of stalls he sped, knocking past people in his haste. His right knee, damaged when he was dragged from his horse amid the blaze of cannon-fire at Tewkesbury, popped painfully. The market crowds would slow the company, would give him time. But not much.
Approaching the Rose and Crown, his breath hot in his throat, Vaughan saw Edward standing in the inn’s doorway. Long-limbed, already promising the height of his father, the youth had a hand raised to ward off the sun, which had turned his shoulder-length fair hair almost white.
As he caught sight of Vaughan, who slowed to a brisk walk, the young king smiled. His face, as delicate-featured as his mother the queen’s – although his still soft and guileless – lit up. ‘Sir Thomas. You have sight of my uncle?’
Vaughan removed his cap and bowed, using the gesture to compose himself. Raising his head, he met the youth’s expectant gaze. Along with Earl Rivers, he had been assigned to Edward’s household at Ludlow when the prince was just two years old, after his father had vanquished the last of his Lancastrian enemies and peace had settled over the realm as a thin, uneasy shroud. In the decade since, the boy had become as a son to him, and so much more besides, but fate had granted Vaughan time to do one thing only in this moment and the king was not his first priority.
‘No, my lord. No sign as yet.’ Vaughan smiled to cover the lie. ‘But I’ll see the grooms have our horses ready for when they arrive.’
When Edward nodded, giving him his leave, Vaughan strode to the stables at the back of the inn, replacing the cap over his iron-grey hair, now damp with sweat.
Before leaving the Rose and Crown he’d told his squire to pack his belongings. There was Stephen, overseeing the porters carrying down packs and coffers. Vaughan saw his sword in its red leather scabbard propped against the stable door by a pile of bags. There were other men here – the king’s guards, Richard Grey’s servants and some of Earl Rivers’s squires – doing the same. Grooms were stowing the gear into saddle-packs. The horses were at their morning feed, most as yet unbridled. Vaughan let his decision settle in him. There wasn’t time to get the king away. Not safely.
Stephen spotted him. ‘Almost done, sir,’ he called, crossing to meet him. ‘And I’ve sent Will to buy more supplies from the market. That should see us to London.’
‘Stephen, I need you to listen.’
The squire’s expression changed at his tone, his eyes at once alert.
Vaughan glanced round as one of Rivers’s men passed them, a pack hefted on his shoulder. He wouldn’t choose to speak so freely, not here. But he had little choice. ‘I want you to go to St Albans – to the Saracen’s Head. Wait for me there. If I don’t come in three days . . .’ Vaughan paused, aware of the enormity of the burden he was about to pass on. ‘Stephen, I need you to go to my son.’
Stephen frowned in question, but he’d been in Vaughan’s service for years and his obedience was greater than his curiosity. ‘Yes, sir. To Harry?’
‘Not Harry. My other son.’
Rivers’s man had dumped the pack and was heading back towards them.
Ignoring Stephen’s surprise, Vaughan leaned in close and murmured the last instructions
in his squire’s ear. ‘Here,’ he finished, removing three of the four rings he wore, twisting them over his knuckles. The first – a wedding gift from his wife, Eleanor, dead nigh on fourteen years – was gold, embedded with two small rubies, the second was a simple silver band and the third had a gold disc engraved with two serpents entwined around a winged staff decorated with silver markings that glittered as Vaughan pressed the bands into Stephen’s palm, leaving just his signet ring to decorate his hand. ‘Take these and my sword. Eleanor’s ring will fetch enough for passage. Give the other two to my son along with the blade. He will need them for his own journey.’
Now, Stephen did break his silence. ‘Sir, what is this?’
‘God willing, I will see you at the Saracen’s Head tomorrow and we can laugh at my madness over a flagon of ale. But if not . . .’ There was much more Vaughan wanted to say; so much more than bands of metal he wanted to send Stephen away with. But he could hear rough shouts and the clatter of hooves rising from the street beyond. He was out of time. Vaughan thrust his squire towards the stables. ‘Go! Go now!’
Stephen obeyed. Grabbing one of the packs of supplies and Vaughan’s sword, he ducked into the stables. A few of the servants and grooms glanced at him, wondering what the hurry was.
One of Rivers’s squires crossed to Vaughan, his brow furrowed. ‘Is something wrong, Sir Thomas?’
‘No. All is well.’
The shouts from the street were louder now. Some of the men in the yard stopped what they were doing, turning to look for the source. Vaughan headed towards the sounds hoping, fervently, that he had read this wrong – that his foreboding was unfounded, just the creation of his own troubled mind. Pausing at the side of the inn, hidden from view, he saw the company of black-clad horsemen dismounting outside the Rose and Crown. Market-goers, some pulling excited children away from the horses, were stepping back to stare, apprehensive, but curious. Vaughan caught sight of Edward, dwarfed by the ring of stamping, mud-spattered palfreys. The king’s guards had come out of the inn and were standing protectively in front of the boy, swords in hands. With them was Richard Grey, the queen-dowager’s son by her first marriage; Edward’s half-brother.
