by Robyn Young
‘My lord king.’
At the familiar voice – slightly high for a man’s, but nonetheless sharp with authority – Vaughan saw Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Great Chamberlain and Lord High Admiral of England, emerge from the crowd of horsemen. Tall, although not quite the height of his brother, the dead king, and far leaner in body, the duke was dressed all in black, with just a glint of silver that came from the badge pinned to his cloak. It was fashioned in the shape of a boar.
Richard approached his nephew with a stiffness to his gait that Vaughan knew came from the curve of his spine. The defect, which had affected the duke since adolescence, was barely noticeable beneath the folds of his velvet cloak, but Vaughan knew it was there. He had seen the painful-looking twist that crooked the man’s back in the aftermath of the battle at Barnet, the physician stripping the shirt from Richard’s blood-drenched body.
The duke removed his black velvet cap and knelt before the king, his shoulder-length dark hair slipping in front of his face. The guards protecting Edward faltered, lowering their swords. Richard’s gesture was followed by the rest of his company, among them his cousin, Sir Henry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, who stood out from the others, a gaudy flower in his scarlet robes. Vaughan, who had never been close with Gloucester, but had served with him for years and respected him as a leader of men, had been surprised to hear he had taken up with Buckingham. The young duke, excluded from royal favour for years, had a reputation for arrogance and impetuosity.
Buckingham was the first to rise, brushing the dust from his silks. He, too, wore a badge that displayed his emblem: that of a swan with a crown and chain around its neck.
Gloucester stood and addressed his nephew. ‘My lord, I bear black tidings.’
Edward was scanning the company, troubled. ‘Uncle, where is Sir Anthony? He left to meet you yesterday.’
Hearing voices behind him, Vaughan looked round to see some of the king’s servants and guards approaching from the stables, their packing forgotten. Over their heads, he caught a glimpse of Stephen, riding away down one of the alleys that led from the yard.
‘My lord, it pains me to tell you that Earl Rivers has been caught in conspiracy against you.’ Gloucester’s gaze flicked to Richard Grey. ‘Along with your half-brother and your chamberlain, Sir Thomas Vaughan. They intend to take control of your realm.’
Vaughan turned back sharply, his relief at Stephen’s departure curdling inside him at the words. Dear God, what had Gloucester discovered? Had Rivers revealed that which they were sworn to protect? Was he betrayed? He rubbed his thumb against the base of his finger where the gold serpent ring had left a white band.
‘Lies!’ Grey was shouting, his cheeks flushed with anger. He turned to Edward. ‘My lord, you must not believe this!’
Gloucester continued calmly. ‘I have evidence that they conspired to ambush me on the road. I believe they meant to kill me.’
Vaughan’s shock turned to anger. It compelled him from his hiding place. ‘What evidence?’
Gloucester’s gaze switched to Vaughan as he appeared from around the inn. The duke’s expression settled, as if he were gratified to see him.
At Buckingham’s gesture, two men peeled from the group and marched to Vaughan. They flanked him as he came forward, not taking his eyes off Gloucester. More of Buckingham’s guards moved to block the approach of Edward’s servants and two confronted Richard Grey. Some of the market crowds dispersed, fearing trouble, but others pressed forward in their place, keen to know what was happening here – what business of the realm they were witnessing. ‘I say again, my lord Gloucester, what evidence do you have for such conspiracy?’
‘My allies in court found proof of a plot to remove me from my place as Protector of the Realm, a role assigned to me by my brother on his deathbed. In short, a royal order.’
Now Vaughan understood. Gloucester hadn’t wanted to join the king’s party: he wanted to take control of it. He’d expected the man to take a strong stance in young Edward’s court, no doubt concerned not to be left out in the cold by the queen-dowager and her allies in the new government. He had anticipated tough negotiations, grudging compromises. But this? Vaughan had known Richard of Gloucester, who was half his age, since the man was born. He had fought alongside him, bled with him for his brother’s cause. ‘The only conspiracy I see here, my lord Gloucester, is yours.’
Edward stepped forward. ‘Uncle, this must be a mistake.’ He pointed to Vaughan and Grey, both flanked by Buckingham’s guards. ‘Sir Thomas, my brother, my uncle Rivers – they would never go against me. Or you.’ He turned back to Gloucester, his face beseeching. ‘Let us go together to my mother. She will help settle this trouble.’
‘Your mother is the trouble,’ Buckingham snapped. ‘Always has been.’
Gloucester narrowed his eyes at the duke. ‘There is no mistake, my lord. But have no fear. You are under my protection now. I will escort you safe to London.’ He turned his attention to Vaughan and Grey. ‘Sir Thomas Vaughan, Sir Richard Grey, you are under arrest for conspiring against the king’s ministers and attempting to undermine royal authority.’
Vaughan saw the onlookers by the market stalls whispering excitedly. Many eyes were on him. Outwardly, he remained calm, but his heart was thrumming the way it did before battle. Buckingham’s men seized his arms. He had no sword and the dagger in his belt would do him little good.
‘The rest of you are free to go,’ said Gloucester, raising his voice to address the king’s retinue. ‘Give your arms to my men and stand down. You are hereby relieved of your duties.’
Edward, his face tight with distress, stared helplessly at Vaughan.
Vaughan nodded to him. ‘Go with your uncle, my lord. Earl Rivers and I will see you at your coronation, when these false charges against us have been dismissed.’ He said it to reassure the youth as well as to challenge the dukes, but the words felt hollow as Gloucester placed a firm hand on the young king’s shoulder and led him away.
As Vaughan was marched off with Grey, he saw Buckingham’s guards moving in to disarm the rest of the king’s men, ignoring their protests. Beyond them, he caught a glimpse of a man in a blue cloak riding away down the alley by the stables. He was heading in the direction Stephen had gone.
Chapter 2
Sunlight sliced like a bright blade through a gap in the shutters. It pierced Jack Wynter’s eyes where he lay on the bed, drawing him from the depths of disturbed dreams. He winced as he woke and turned away out of the shaft of light, the thin sheet twisting around him. Pain lanced through his head and he lay still for a moment, letting it subside, before pushing himself up and kicking away the clinging sheet, soaked with his sweat.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he found a goblet on the worm-eaten floorboards beside his feet, half-full of wine. He drained it, washing back the sour taste in his mouth. He rose unsteadily and crossed to the window, where dust swirled in streams of light. As he pushed open the shutters, two birds flew up from the sill, wings clapping. The sun’s glare reflected off the white walls that pressed in all around, searing his eyes and burrowing the pain deep in his head. It was some moments before he could blink away its brightness enough to see the cramped courtyard below, choked with its tangle of trees. Insects droned around crimson flowers that welled like blood clots on the branches. The sky was a cloudless azure and even though it was still morning, Jack could feel the heat pulsing in the air. In a few hours it would be oven-hot.
A whisper of breeze rippled through a spider’s web strung across one corner of the window, speckled with the husks of flies. A month ago, the wind would have brought him the scent of orange blossom that perfumed the whole city. Today, all he could smell was the stink of the river, stale cooking odours and the acrid smoke from the potters’ kilns. It was his second summer in Seville. The first had been so different – the city ripe with possibility, waiting to be tasted, savoured, explored. Now, the oranges had fallen, the heat was rising and he was still here, trap
ped in this furnace, waiting for the word that would release him from its sun-baked streets.
The creak of the bed told him Elena was up. He heard her soft footfalls behind him.
‘You lost this again.’
Jack turned.
Elena was holding up a silver chain by her finger. A small iron key dangled from it. ‘You will not tell me what it unlocks?’
In her mouth the Castilian tongue was husky and rich, burned sugar sweet. Jack had picked up the gist of the language over the past year. Enough to get by. Enough to make friends and enemies.
Taking the chain, he felt an urge to throw it out of the window – let it tangle in the courtyard’s trees or drown in the scum-filmed fountain. Instead, he pulled it over his head, letting the key’s familiar weight dangle from his neck. The movement pinched his shoulder. The muscles were still sore from last month’s fight, although the bruises on his torso and arms had faded.
Elena shook her head as she looked him up and down. She plucked her gown from the crumpled bed and slipped into it, shrugging it over her breasts. ‘If you lose today, Carrillo will feed you to his dogs.’
Jack said nothing, irritated by her coolness. She was so different at night when he came through the doors after a win, carried in with victory songs and the laughter of the strangers he called friends. Each time he fell under the spell cast by the Málaga wine and her perfume, the candle-flames flickering in her eyes, her smile making him feel like the only man in the crowded room. In the morning, when he was drained in purse and body, the spell was broken. Yet still he returned, whenever his winnings allowed, drawn by the drink and the sweet-scented dark.
As he was lacing up his hose, there was a rap at the door. Elena opened it and Jack saw Pedro, one of the younger brothers of Diego, who ran the tavern and the girls who worked its upstairs rooms, peer in. Pedro smirked at Jack, who turned away and shrugged on his shirt and doublet. The velvet garment, once a deep blue, had faded in the Spanish sun.
‘The Englishman’s friend is downstairs, hammering on the door.’
Antonio, thought Jack, gratified the young man hadn’t abandoned him, as he’d threatened to last night. After pulling on his boots, the soft hide of which was scuffed and worn, he tied his pouch to his belt and pushed past the grinning Pedro.
‘My brother says it will be a shame to lose one of his best.’
Jack paused and turned back. ‘Tell Diego I will be back for the next fight. Then he can pay me what he owes me.’
Downstairs, Jack rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the needling pain as he waited by the door for the old man to return his sword and dagger. Nine months ago, soon after he’d been drawn to this place following rumours of Diego’s arena – where lowborn men denied the tournament grounds and bullrings might prove their prowess – a patron had gone mad and murdered two girls. Jack had felt as though he were back on a battlefield. The screaming, the confusion, the blood. Since then, men weren’t allowed to bring weapons in. Pulling on his sword belt, reassured by its weight, he flipped the old man a coin in thanks. The man snatched it from the air.
Outside, Jack found Antonio leaning against the wall in the shade. Although he was Castilian and a Christian, Antonio’s olive skin and black hair were a testament to nearly eight hundred years of Moorish rule in Andalusia. The Moors, a minority in the city since Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand had declared war on the Kingdom of Granada, had left their mark in both the people and the buildings, where inscriptions from the Koran and the Bible offered their praise to God from the same walls. For Jack, it was as though another world were pressing in on the known borders of his own, so close here its essence had seeped into the landscape. So close he could feel its dust in the air, smell its spices.
‘My friend.’ Antonio spread his arms. ‘You look like a faint breeze would topple you.’ His smile was strained and didn’t reach his eyes. ‘It is a day for sitting in the shade by the river, yes? A jug of wine? Some dates and almonds from the market?’
‘Another day, Antonio.’
The young man’s smile vanished. ‘Tell me you aren’t going through with this madness?’ As Jack started walking, Antonio hurried to keep pace. ‘You already beat Carrillo. Humiliated him.’
‘He deserved what he got. He thought he was better than us – thought he would show us our place.’
‘And you showed him otherwise in the arena. Isn’t that enough?’
‘He called me out. If I didn’t accept my win would mean nothing. It’s a question of honour.’
‘Sometimes you talk like them,’ muttered Antonio.
‘Who?’
‘Estevan Carrillo and his friends.’ The young man waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the city on the other side of the river. ‘Nobles.’
They turned down a narrow alley between the tight-packed buildings, heading for the water. Outside the cave-like opening of a tavern two skinny dogs were licking at a puddle of dried vomit. Further down, an old woman with leathery skin was rooting through a heap of rubbish. She glared at them as they passed.
Triana was a night place, the dark like a veil over its ugliness. It was a place for sailors and whores, outsiders and outlaws; those living on the edge, those dreaming of another life. In Triana, hope and despair were close neighbours. You could see it in the foreign faces of those who came in on the boats with stories of wonder and horror from distant lands. It was there in Diego’s dust-clouded arena, where poor young men battered one another bloody for the chance of a win. There in the rough stamp of feet to the lutes and drums in the taverns, and in the girls who danced for men with coins in their hands. Jack felt at home here.
‘You must know Estevan doesn’t just want a chance to win back his money. He wants blood. Walk away, my friend.’
As they emerged on the banks of the river, Jack turned to Antonio. ‘Walk away?’ Anger roughened his voice.
‘Go back to Jacob, just for a while. Estevan doesn’t know where you live. I’ve heard Queen Isabella intends to join the king after this victory against the Moors at Lucena. Estevan and his father will no doubt go with her.’
‘Hide, you mean?’
‘This isn’t the arena you are fighting in today. Estevan won’t follow Diego’s rules.’
‘We agreed to first blood.’
‘You agreed.’
Jack said nothing. He stared out across the river. Over the blue waters of the Guadalquivir, on the opposite bank, the Torre del Oro gleamed in the sun. There were three great ships moored at the docks by the golden tower, looming over scores of smaller craft and fishing boats. The galleys each had a white flag tied to their main masts, on which Jack made out the red cross of St George. English vessels. Only a few months ago his heart would have leapt at the sight and he would have raced across the Puente de Barcas to search for sign of his father’s face among the men who came ashore. Now, he felt no such hope.
There were men on the dockside unloading large sacks. Filled with wool, Jack guessed. When they left their decks would be piled with olive oil and soap, wine and silver that they would sail up the mouth of the Severn or the Thames to the markets of Bristol and London. Beyond the docks, Seville’s jumble of red rooftops and spires was dominated by the bell tower of the cathedral that thrust high above the city. When he first arrived, Jacob told him it had been the minaret of the mosque that once stood in its place. East of the cathedral lay the labyrinthine streets of the judería. The thought of trailing his way back to Jacob to hide in the old man’s dark little house, while youths threw stones at the closed shutters and chanted that Jews must convert or die, made him feel furious.
He had come to this city with another purpose entirely, but that purpose had withered and died in the empty months that followed, leaving nothing but a key on a chain around his neck. These things were his purpose now: his victories in Diego’s arena and his growing reputation in Triana. He would build his own fortune. Climb his own way up from the gutter of his birth. He had no need of his father’s help, or m
ore broken promises.
The bell in the cathedral tower tolled, the sound rippling out across the city, telling him there were still two hours before he was due to meet Estevan Carrillo in the olive groves near La Cartuja. Jack glanced at Antonio, who was kicking at a stone. When the young man fixed himself to his side six months ago, he hadn’t questioned it. Friendships came and went here like the galleys that passed through the dockyards, their decks scattering dust from other lands. Now, Jack wondered if he was more to Antonio than just someone to share a jug of wine with. In Triana’s undercurrents, which could drown a man if he wasn’t careful, maybe he was flotsam – something to cling to.
‘You’re hungry, yes?’ he asked Antonio, smiling at the despondent young man. ‘Come. Let’s get some of those dates.’
As Stephen stepped on to the dockside in the shadow of the galley, his legs buckled and he had to clutch at a pile of crates to steady himself. After two weeks on board the Golden Fleece it was unsettling to stand on solid ground and still feel it shifting like the sea beneath his feet. He heard rough laughter behind him.
‘Pack away those sea-legs,’ called one of the crew, slinging a bag of wool on to the dockside. ‘You need your land-shanks now.’
Stephen paused to find his feet, adjusting Vaughan’s war blade, which was much longer and heavier than his falchion. As he set off in the direction of the bell tower one of the sailors had pointed him towards, he heard the man shout again behind him.
‘We sail at first light tomorrow. You won’t want to be late!’
Stephen made his way across the dockside, through the noise of crates and barrels being stacked and the gruff calls of sailors. Men Stephen took for customs officers moved among them, checking cargoes and documents. Now he was off the water and the breeze was gone, he felt the full force of the Spanish sun. Stephen shrugged off his cloak and slung it over the leather bag he’d kept close by his side since St Albans. There were moments, the Golden Fleece caught in mountainous waves off the north coast of Spain, when he thought his mission, and indeed his life, would be ended at the bottom of the ocean. He felt relieved to have made it here, although he wished he hadn’t needed to have come at all.
