by Robyn Young
The chaos of the past hour had left little opportunity for him to question much. Now, alone in the silence of the room, his suspicions solidified.
Hearing the latch snap up, Jack wiped his thumb on his doublet.
‘I got us some bread and cheese.’
Jack didn’t look round at Gregory’s voice. Hearing the bolt slide across, he curled his hand around the hilt of his sword. ‘Thomas Vaughan didn’t send you, did he?’
Gregory didn’t answer.
Now Jack did turn, drawing his sword. ‘You’re here for it, aren’t you?’
Gregory was standing in front of the door, holding a board of food. His expression was all the confirmation Jack needed.
As Gregory tossed the food aside and reached for Vaughan’s sword, Jack charged across the room. He barrelled into the man shoulder-first, propelling him into the door, so hard it splintered in the frame. Gregory, winded by the impact, struggled to tug Vaughan’s weapon from the scabbard. Jack slammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s face, mashing his lips and shattering one of his front teeth. While Gregory was clutching at his face, Jack kneed him in the stomach. The man curled over, the breath snatched from him, and Jack wrenched his father’s sword free. He pushed the tip of the blade into Gregory’s neck and raised his own sword over the man’s head. Gregory, bent double, stiffened at the bite of steel.
‘Who sent you?’
Gregory didn’t respond.
‘Has my father even been arrested? Or is that a lie too? Whose blood is on the ring?’
There was a heavy pounding on the door. ‘What’s happening in here?’
As Jack glanced up, Gregory ducked away from the blade and kicked it aside. Jack was unbalanced, just for a moment, but enough for Gregory to rush him, shoving him backwards towards the window. Jack struck the table, which toppled over behind him, and he went down on top of it, the legs shattering beneath him. His own blade was knocked from his hand, but he managed to keep hold of his father’s sword, which he punched upwards as Gregory loomed over him. The tip punctured the man’s stomach, just below his navel. It went in deep. He stood motionless for a moment, staring down at it, then staggered back off the blade pressing his hands to his stomach. Blood bloomed dark on his shirt and oozed between his fingers. He gritted his teeth and tried to come at Jack, but pain contorted his face and he collapsed.
The person behind the door had stopped shouting and was trying to shoulder it open. The splintered wood was starting to crack. Jack twisted free of the shattered table legs and grabbed his fallen sword, shoving it into its scabbard. Pushing his father’s blade through his belt, he snatched his bag from the floor.
Gregory was sprawled on his back, his oily face ashen. He turned his head to Jack, his eyes slitted in agony. ‘They will come for you.’
Jack climbed on to the window ledge and looked down into the rubbish-filled alley below. As the door burst open, he jumped.
Chapter 6
William Hastings lay awake, the woman asleep in his arms. Her hand on his broad stomach was clutched in a fist. He traced the smooth ridges of her knuckles with his finger, thought of the night he had first seen her, stepping into the great hall of Windsor Castle on the arm of her father.
She had been barely out of girlhood then, her jewelled hair as red as winter fires in the blaze of candles, the white silk gown clinging to her budding breasts. Hastings, seated at the top table beside the king for the feast of All Souls, hadn’t been able to take his gaze off her. Neither had Edward, who asked his steward to bring the girl’s father, a wealthy London merchant, before him. Mistress Elizabeth Lambert, as she was introduced, had given a curtsey, but unlike her father had kept her eyes raised, locked with Edward’s, oblivious to Queen Elizabeth’s glacial stare. If Master John Lambert had brought his daughter there that night, wrapped in her best gown, to find a husband, he had been sorely disappointed. The two men who wanted her were already married.
They had shared her for a time, he and Edward, on wine-soaked nights that were little more than colours in Hastings’s memory – crimson velvet, midnight black, flesh pink. Elizabeth Lambert was not the only mistress of the king’s, but she quickly became his favourite and he wanted her to himself. Hastings had bowed from their unions, but the flame-haired girl had lingered in his thoughts long after. It felt good to have her in his bed again. The drought had been long and, tonight, he had quenched his thirst voraciously. He had forgotten how well she moved, steering him to rapture. He knew she had come to him for security now her lover was dead, but he kept the door to that knowledge closed and felt no need to open it. She was here in his arms and that was all that mattered.
Soft footfalls sounded in the passage outside his bedchamber. After a pause, there was a quiet knock. Frowning at the unexpected interruption, Hastings carefully extracted himself from Elizabeth’s embrace. As he sat up, the feather mattress shifting under his ample weight, she rolled over with a sigh. Pushing through the velvet curtains that surrounded the bed, he took his robe from the clothes’ perch and pulled it on over his nakedness. The room was lit by just two candles, which guttered as he passed, throwing huge shadows up the walls. He opened the door and saw his steward in the gloom beyond. The man looked dishevelled, as if he too had been disturbed from his bed.
‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but you have a visitor.’
‘At this hour? Who?’
‘His grace, Robert Stillington. I suggested a more suitable hour on which he might return, but he said he must speak to you urgently, concerning the king’s coronation.’
Hastings’s irritation faded, replaced by apprehension. ‘Where is he?’
‘In your solar, my lord.’
Pushing a hand through his greying hair, Hastings made his way along the dark passage and up the stairs. The door to his solar was ajar and the glimmer of candlelight seeped out. Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells and former Chancellor to King Edward, was standing by the window. Through the glass the gardens of Hastings’s manor lay in darkness, thronged with the black phantoms of trees. Stillington turned as he entered.
The bishop, who was in his early sixties, was a short man with a round, waxy face. His eyes were shot through with blood and he looked as though he hadn’t slept for days. ‘Sir William.’
‘Your grace.’ Hastings closed the door behind him. ‘What brings you?’
‘Catesby. Your counsellor.’
‘What of him?’ asked Hastings, detecting the bite of something in Stillington’s tone. Anger? Or fear perhaps?
‘He came to me two days ago, asking if I remembered a young woman. Lady Eleanor Butler.’
Hastings’s brow furrowed. He knew that name, although he hadn’t heard it in some time. Eleanor Butler, daughter of John Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, cut down by the French guns at Castillon, had been one of Edward’s first mistresses, long before the flame-haired girl asleep downstairs. She had died years ago.
‘Catesby said it had come to light that her relations with the king were more than they appeared.’ The bishop spoke quickly. ‘He told me Eleanor had been promised to Edward – promised in marriage. That there had been a contract made.’
Hastings was shaking his head in confusion and no small amount of indignation. What on earth was Catesby doing going to the bishop with this? Why hadn’t the lawyer come to him? ‘How did this come to light? Who made this ridiculous claim?’
‘He would not say. But don’t you see, Sir William, if he can prove Lord Edward was already contracted in marriage it renders his vows to Queen Elizabeth invalid. It means—’
‘It means her sons are illegitimate,’ finished Hastings, his voice low.
‘Catesby said I must play my part ensuring the realm is saved from the taint of bad blood. He knows I was in the king’s presence on occasions when Edward and Eleanor were in company. He told me I must say I had presided over the marriage. That I must bear witness to this claim.’
Hastings felt shock run cold through him. This falseh
ood hadn’t been claimed; it had been invented, and there could be only one reason for that. ‘He aims at the throne.’ The bishop didn’t hear his murmur, but Hastings didn’t repeat it.
He looked at his desk, piled with papers detailing plans for the coming coronation. Only days ago he had discussed these arrangements with Richard. The summonses had been sent out around the kingdom. Ceremonial robes were being made, grand pageants planned by the guilds. Hastings recalled Catesby excusing himself to discuss the lease for Crosby Place with Richard. Had they collaborated on this treachery then? Or was this something they had planned since the king’s death? Or before? Hastings thought of the speed and efficiency with which the duke had moved to isolate young Edward. Rivers and Vaughan had been imprisoned, the queen-dowager was hiding out in Westminster Abbey, there were warrants for the arrest of her brother, Edward Woodville, and her son, Thomas Grey. And the boy who should be king was in the Tower.
Hastings turned back to the bishop. ‘You said Catesby came to you two days ago? Why have you waited to speak of this?’
When Stillington looked away, Hastings knew he had been wrestling with the decision. Seeing the fear in the man’s red-rimmed eyes, he wondered what Catesby had said to try to persuade him to go along with this. He knew how intimidating the lawyer could be. He himself had benefited from it for years. ‘He told you not to speak of this to anyone, didn’t he? Threatened you with something? What?’
Spots of colour stained Stillington’s waxy cheeks. ‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘I simply worried the claim could be genuine and I wasn’t sure whether speaking out could cause more harm to our realm.’
Hastings let the lie go. ‘It isn’t. Edward and I shared . . . We shared everything. Yes, our king wrestled with sins and vices, as have we all. But there was no contract made with Eleanor. I would know if there was.’
Dear God, but he had been blindsided, not just by Richard, his cousin, but by Catesby, his trusted adviser and a man of his faction.
‘What do we do?’ asked Stillington. ‘How do we control Catesby?’ His tone was harder now, more forceful – the voice of the pulpit. ‘You, of all people, must have some hold over him? He is your man.’
‘Stay out of Catesby’s way for now,’ Hastings advised, after a pause. ‘I need to think about this. Seek allies.’ Two names had already sprung to his mind: Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York, and John Morton, Bishop of Ely, a canny minister and another loyal supporter of Edward. ‘I will take it from here.’
‘But Catesby will be dealt with, yes?’
‘You can be sure of it.’
Stillington nodded, relief plain in his face.
When the bishop had gone, Hastings went to the window. Nightlights, frail and flickering, illuminated the upper windows of the nearby manors of lords and bishops that lined the Strand. Beyond, in the distance, London’s dark mass of spires and towers filled Hastings’s vision; a hundred black fingers pointing heavenward. He had put his reputation – his whole career – on the block, aiding Richard’s actions these past weeks. He had done so because he thought they were reading from the same page. Yes, they both hated the Woodvilles, but young Edward, son and heir of the man they had served for most of their lives, was rightful king and must be crowned.
The warmth of his bed and Elizabeth’s embrace had vanished. Hastings felt cold. He had lived through the wars between the houses of Lancaster and York; the rise and fall of kings. He knew how quickly the world could turn upside down. But, still, this had spun him completely.
Everything had changed.
Sarah Wynter cupped the candle as she descended the stairs, her nightgown whispering against her legs. The tallow smoked and spat, speckling her hand with molten fat. It was late and the house was silent. Downstairs, the fire in the hearth had turned to ash and the floor was cold beneath her feet, even through the rushes and woodruff. Sarah put the candle on the table, where its flame tilted feebly at the shadows. Her mouth felt dry and she wondered if she had been calling out in her sleep, although Lucy, her maid, hadn’t stirred. The dream had been disturbing. She had been climbing steps inside a vast tower, up and up, following her son. James was going too fast. She had called for him to slow, but he disappeared, leaving only his footsteps and her cries to echo into the distance.
Taking a cup from a shelf, Sarah poured milk from a jug on the table. It was on the turn, but the creamy liquid soothed her throat. She cradled the cup in her hands, noticing her fingernails were caked with dirt from where she had been working in her garden, harvesting the first peas and beans. Her hands smelled of earth. Crossing to the window, she pushed open the shutter and looked out. There was a blue luminescence to the sky that cast the rows of plants and herbs in an eerie twilight. It was almost midsummer. The fires for the feast of St John the Baptist would soon be lit. Lucy had helped her gather wood and set aside the animal carcasses for their bone-fire. It was there in the dimness, a large heap of sticks and bones, waiting to smoke away the blights of summer.
Sarah paused, the cup to her lips. Was there something moving in the darkness – out there, under the trees? She scanned the gloom. Shadows. Nothing but shadows. She drank, feeling uneasy.
Her little wooden house was small, but well-appointed, filled with gifts Thomas had brought her over the years: a silk rug from Burgundy, two silver goblets, a gold sugar spoon from Paris. Set back from the town it stood apart, bordered by woods and fields that rose into a rolling expanse of downland. Sarah had always appreciated its isolation, but in recent weeks, since news of Thomas’s arrest had reached her, the same isolation that had shielded her from the worst of the gossip that dogged her in the town now made her feel vulnerable.
Last year, on one of his increasingly rare visits, she told Thomas she’d glimpsed men in the woods and had come home once from the market to find footprints, much bigger than hers or Lucy’s, tracking soil through the house. He had reassured her, saying it was just children – boys playing. But Sarah had seen him that evening, staring out of the window when he thought she wasn’t looking, his brow knotted.
Thomas had always been inscrutable, but she didn’t mind that. It was in shade and secrecy that their love had grown. Her husband, James, an innkeeper turned invalid confined to his bed after losing his leg in an accident, had become a bitter, violent drunk and between the storms of rage and resentment, Sarah found solace in the arms of Thomas, a royal official on business in the town. Older than her, with a quiet confidence and a worldly manner, he offered an escape from her blighted life. After James died their secret courtship continued, growing stronger even though their unions grew more infrequent, Thomas away for many months at a time. Their private dream was only interrupted by the unexpected arrival of their son and the poisonous rumours that forced Sarah to sell the inn and move to the little house on the outskirts. Thomas had helped with the arrangements. He seemed to like the isolation too, able to come and go without notice from prying eyes.
Sarah had never wanted to know about his other life: the intrigues of court, the long trips abroad, the two children of the wife who had been of suitable stock for a man of Thomas’s rank and standing, unlike her – a miller’s daughter and wife of a suicide. But Thomas had changed over the past year, his wish for privacy becoming guardedness. There were things on his mind, she knew, troubles he would not share. It had come to a head when he had sent James away. Thomas refused to tell her much, only that their son was undertaking a mission of great importance.
You have to trust me, Sarah. I would not send him unless it was vital. I can tell you no more than that.
James had gone, of course he had. He would do anything his father asked, desperate to belong in his world. It was the only thing Sarah regretted about her union with Thomas: that their son had been born with a foot in two different worlds and no sure ground beneath him.
She finished the milk and rubbed the rim of the cup with her finger, her mind drifting back to the dream. Was James safe wherever he was? Would Thomas’s arrest have
any bearing on him? Or would the same secrecy his father had insisted upon now shield her son from harm?
She had kept herself occupied these past weeks, working in the garden until her back was screaming, mending old clothes, cleaning out the store. Lucy had offered to help, troubled by her fervour, but these tasks were all Sarah had been able to do, helpless with waiting, knowing any news would go to Vaughan’s son and daughter long before it came to her. Old Arnold, a lawyer Thomas had worked with when he was Sheriff of Sussex, had promised to keep her informed, but so far there were only rumours of the new king being taken to the Tower and a sense of unease bubbling up across the kingdom.
Setting the cup on the table, Sarah picked up the guttering candle. Tomorrow she would go into town, see if Arnold knew anything more.
She was halfway up the stairs when the door crashed open below.
‘You are certain?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied William Catesby. He kept his gaze on Richard, who was seated behind the desk. Around them, the council chamber was stacked with chests, the servants still in the process of unpacking the duke’s belongings. ‘I had Stillington watched. As I said, I wasn’t convinced of his loyalty. The bishop went to my lord Hastings late last night. This morning my man trailed Sir William to the manor of Thomas Rotherham. John Morton later joined them there. I think we have to assume that the bishops now know what we have asked Stillington to do.’
Richard sat back in the chair. Resting his elbows on the arms, he steepled his hands under his chin and chewed his lip, worrying the skin between his teeth. A habit since childhood, it worsened when he was distressed. ‘You said we would announce it as a shocking revelation, a terrible burden of knowledge long held by Stillington and shared at last for the security of the realm.’ Richard’s eyes bored into Catesby’s. ‘Now it looks exactly as it is: a spurious claim invented by you, with pressure put on the bishop to admit it.’
