by Robyn Young
The memory made him uncomfortable. He wondered where Peter was. The last thing he wanted was a run-in with the town bailiff. He stood. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
Grace rose with him, frowning. Then, seemingly reading his thoughts, she shook her head. ‘It is just me here now, James. Me and the children. Peter died in the winter. A sickness in his lungs.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Her eyes flicked away and she settled back down on the stool, smoothing out the folds in her gown. ‘It is hard for the children. But I . . .’ Her cheeks coloured and she looked down at her hands.
Jack remembered well her tears when her father told her she would marry the bailiff, a widower almost twice her age. He remembered, too, his own reaction when she came to him for comfort: angry, jealous, telling her he wanted nothing more to do with her or her family, shouting at her to leave him be. Yes, he had been a fool. But the hurt of her exit from his life had stung all the more for the knowledge that he would never be good enough to fulfil such a role; never be a suitable match for the daughter of a Justice of the Peace.
It had been one of the times he had come close to revealing his true parentage. He had seen her father fawn like an eager pup on the occasions Thomas Vaughan had shown himself in Lewes. What he wouldn’t have given to see the look on the man’s face if he knew that he, that bastard boy, had been sired by one of the most powerful men in England. But he had stayed quiet, keeping his word for the sake of his mother, watching from the back row in church every Sunday as Grace walked the aisle on Peter’s arm, her eyes distant. Watching on feast days as she sat in silence at the man’s side. Watching as her stomach swelled with her first child, then the second.
It hadn’t been the reason he had agreed to go to Seville when Vaughan came to him. But it had been an advantage.
Jack sat, placing the tankard on the floor between them. ‘Tell me what happened. The house. My mother.’
Grace met his gaze. ‘It happened . . .’ She let out a breath. ‘It was just last week, James.’
Jack felt his chest tighten. Last week? If only . . .
‘I thought, when Alice said you had returned, that someone must have told you. I would have sent word myself, but I didn’t know where you were. No one did.’
Someone did, Jack thought, Gregory’s face floating in his mind.
‘The coroner ruled it as an accident.’
‘An accident? How did it start?’
‘It happened at night. By the time people were alerted it was too late. They found your mother and her maid, Lucy, in their beds. The coroner thought maybe her St John’s fire . . .?’ Grace held him with her gaze. ‘I heard him tell my father it would have been quick. The smoke – not the flames.’
Jack thought of the Jews he had seen burned to death outside Seville’s walls, yellow fat bubbling out of their skin, heads lolling on charred bodies. He forced the hideous image away.
‘She was buried at St Mary’s. I went to the funeral, with Arnold. There were a few people from the town.’
‘Come to gloat over the fate of the town whore?’
Grace flinched. ‘No, James. No. It was a respectful service. People liked your mother, no matter the past.’
He pushed his hands through his hair, struggling to take this in, to swallow it down and accept it. Were these all unconnected events: his father’s rumoured arrest, Gregory’s arrival in Seville, his mother’s death? Random, cruel acts of God? ‘But it was just an accident? No more than that?’
When she didn’t answer, he sat forward, seeing the fraction of doubt in her eyes. ‘What is it? What aren’t you telling me, Grace?’
‘John Browe.’
‘Browe?’ The elderly cobbler was his mother’s nearest neighbour. ‘What of him?’
‘He came to my father a few days ago, after your mother’s funeral. He said he had seen men in the woods near your home. The day of the fire.’
‘Men? Who? How many?’
‘He is old, James. He couldn’t remember much at all. Only that . . .’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Only that death walked among them.’
‘Death? What did he mean?’
‘My father thought he was seeing things. He has complained before about strangers lurking in the woods. I’m sure it’s just children. We used to play there, remember?’
‘You’re sure? Or your father is?’ When she didn’t answer, Jack pressed her. ‘So he dismissed it?’
‘What else could he do? He had no evidence of a crime and no felon to pursue.’ Grace’s voice dropped to a murmur. ‘And you know what he is like.’
Jack’s anger rose in him, a red-hot tide. He stood, hands clenching. Oh, yes, he knew well what Justice Shawe was like. As a boy he’d been subject to the malice of Grace’s brother and his friends for years, but it wasn’t until he met her father that he understood where such cruelty stemmed from. It had been a bitter awakening – to see how much pleasure an adult could take in a child’s pain. He had no doubt that whether Shawe believed John Browe or not, the matter would not be pursued. To a man like him a woman like Sarah Wynter was not worth the effort.
He strode to where he had discarded his bag and snatched it up. ‘I have to go.’
‘Go where?’ Grace followed him to the door.
‘My fa— My master, Sir Thomas Vaughan. I was told he was arrested. I need to see him.’
‘We heard this too. But I . . .’
‘You heard this?’ Jack turned to her. ‘Then it is true?’
‘Sir Thomas and Earl Rivers were arrested by the Duke of Gloucester two months ago. They were escorting King Edward to London. We recently learned the coronation has been postponed. My father fears a war.’
‘Where was Sir Thomas imprisoned?’
‘In the north, I believe. One of the duke’s strongholds. But – really – what can he do for you in this matter? How will you even get to speak to him?’
Jack didn’t know. Suddenly, he didn’t know anything. The exhaustion from the journey, the shock, the grief – all of it crashed in on him. He dropped the bag and slumped against the wall.
Grace took his hands. ‘You can stay here for as long as you need.’
Jack leaned forward and rested his head on her shoulder. She smelled of lavender and sweat. He had an image of his mother, singing softly as she plucked the dead heads of flowers in her garden. Grace tensed at the unexpected contact, then softened and put her arms around him. He closed his eyes, let it all fall away.
A single candle guttered on the table, flickering amber light across the papers strewn across it and glittering in the eyes of the seven men seated around it. Beyond their circle its dull luminescence gleamed on rough walls, green where the Thames seeped through the stone at high tide. Vaulted arches led into damp darkness, crammed with barrels. The shadows were alive with scratchings and scuttlings that punctuated the brief pauses in the men’s conversation.
‘We know now, beyond doubt, that Gloucester intends to make himself king.’ The man, who was bald, but had a full black beard, scanned the others. ‘Two days ago he set himself in the king’s chair at Westminster and Buckingham and his allies entreated him to take the throne. All who would oppose him have been executed or imprisoned. Any day he will announce his coronation.’
‘Then we must act quickly.’ The second speaker’s voice came thick and whistling through his deformed jaw, once split by a sword, but his tone was forceful despite the impediment and the men around the table listened as he spoke. ‘Make our move before he dons the crown.’
The bald man shook his head. ‘No. This is the time he’ll be most poised for trouble. Gloucester has hundreds of troops in the city – Buckingham’s soldiers and men from the north. After his coronation he’ll feel more secure. He’s already planning a progress to drum up support. Christ knows he’ll need it. I’ve spoken to our ally and we are agreed – that is when we should strike.’
‘Our ally assumes the authority, but none of the risk,’ countered the man with the split m
outh. ‘It is not his head that will be taken if we fail.’
‘Without him this plan would not be possible. We have to trust him. She trusts him. He is our link to her and she is our link to the fortress.’
The split-mouthed man sat back after a moment, accepting with a curt nod.
‘If we wait for the coronation it will surely be too late?’ interjected one of the others. ‘How will we put the boy on the throne when it is occupied by another?’
‘Gloucester won’t have time to secure his dominion.’ The bald man’s voice hardened. ‘There are many more like us – men of our hearts and minds – loyal to King Edward and the oaths we took. Men who will do whatever it takes to see his son sit upon the throne. Men who won’t sit by and watch their titles – their birthrights – granted to Gloucester’s northern faction. Even if it means war.’ The bald man smacked his fist into his palm. ‘Together, we’ll smother Gloucester’s reign while still in its infancy.’
With the nods and strengthening calls of agreement, the bald man’s mouth twisted in triumph. He stabbed his finger down on one of the sheets of paper on the table, the edges of which were curling in the damp cellar air. ‘This is where the princes are being held. In the heart of the Tower.’
Jack woke to sounds of shouting. He opened his eyes and winced as his vision was flooded with light from the small window above him. For a moment, he thought he was in Seville in Elena’s bed. Then, the fog in his mind cleared and it all came back. He was in Grace’s house in Lewes. He was home. And his mother was dead.
As the shouting intensified beyond the parlour door – the muffled anger of a man and a woman – he turned over on the pallet. Grace’s manservant, Gilbert, had set the bed down in the corner of the room for the maid to lay with sheets, all the while shooting him dark looks. Jack went to push back the blanket, then realised he wasn’t alone. Across from him, sat beneath a table, was a small boy with curly fair hair and apple cheeks. The child grinned toothlessly at him and held up a carved wooden horse. Jack smiled back, while searching along the floor for the tankard he’d kept full to the brim these past – what? Three? Four days? It was gone. He grimaced and lay back with a dull memory of Grace telling him he’d had enough. It didn’t feel like enough. The child laughed and stuffed the head of the horse into his mouth.
Suddenly, the parlour door banged open. Jack sat up. There, framed in the doorway, was a young man of around his own age. A few years older than Grace, he was nonetheless her double with the same chestnut hair and high cheekbones. But there, Jack knew, the similarity ended. Francis Shawe may have been made in the same mould as his sister, but a wholly different substance had been poured into that mixture.
Jack stood, the fog in his brain vanishing. At the sight of Francis a host of memories assailed him. Stones thrown at the windows. Boys’ laughter, harsh and high. His mother’s forced smile. Turn the other cheek. An injured dog he had nursed to health, found dead and maggoty behind the house, shot with an arrow. His impotent rage.
‘Get out,’ Francis ordered.
Grace appeared in the doorway beside her brother. ‘Francis . . .’
The young man turned on her. ‘Your husband barely cold in the ground and you open your house to this – this stray? Christ on his Cross, sister, do you want the town to call you what they called his mother?’ His eyes flicked back to Jack, his mouth twisting in contempt.
Jack remembered that same sneer on the face of a much younger Francis, the boy and his friends surrounding him, telling him the man he thought was his father hadn’t died in his bed: he had died with a rope around his neck. Killed himself for the shame of his wife’s whoring. They told him he was a child of any number of strangers who had passed through the inn while his mother’s husband lay crippled. He was a child of the pack-saddle. A cuckoo’s egg. A bastard. Incensed and roaring, he had fought Francis until the boys beat him down and left him curled in his own blood. That night, the bruises livid on his face, he asked his mother if the things they had said were true. She hadn’t spoken, but her tears confirmed it.
Months later, when Jack overheard her arguing with Thomas Vaughan and learned the truth, for one soaring moment he had imagined telling his enemies that his father wasn’t some random stranger, but the former sheriff of the county and trusted man of the king. But then he was caught eavesdropping and Vaughan made him promise never to speak of what he had heard. He protested, but Vaughan had spoken fiercely, telling him if his mother’s adultery was proven beyond rumour she would do penance, whipped through the streets or paraded on a cart for public ridicule, hands tied behind her back, her breasts bared for the whole town to see. Shocked to silence, Jack had kept his word, even through the worst of the abuse, the humiliation.
‘Francis, please. Have some compassion. His mother just died.’
‘You do not want his taint on your reputation, Grace.’
‘Then what taint would I have instead, brother?’ Her voice strengthened. ‘That of the uncharitable wretch who would leave a neighbour out in the cold, or abandon a friend in a time of need?’
Francis shook his head. ‘If our father knew Vaughan’s servant was here, he would—’
Jack gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Your father would lick Sir Thomas’s boots for a mere taste of the fame and standing he enjoyed!’
‘James,’ warned Grace.
Jack ignored her. ‘Many are the times he crawled on his belly when Sir Thomas was in town, so desperate to please him. I can assure you, my master was never impressed.’
‘Enough! Both of you!’
Under the table, the boy began to cry. Crouching, Grace drew her son out and scooped him up.
Francis took a step towards Jack. His eyes had narrowed, but not in anger, rather in pleasure.
Jack faltered, uneasy. Something was coming.
‘I am telling you, sister, he should leave. You want none of the trouble that will be coming for him.’
The child was screaming now. Grace held him close, murmuring words in his ear.
‘What trouble?’ Jack glanced to where his father’s sword stood propped against the wall, next to his bag.
‘Your master has been tried for treason. Word came to my father two days ago. Thomas Vaughan was executed with Earl Rivers and Richard Grey in Yorkshire. Strung up on the gallows like a commoner.’
‘You’re lying,’ murmured Jack. But his voice lacked conviction. Francis’s words had always cut so deeply precisely because they were so often the truth.
Francis said nothing, but his lips flattened in a thin smile. ‘You should have stayed in whatever hole you disappeared down, Wynter.’
Jack launched himself across the room in three strides to slam his fist into the young man’s face.
Chapter 10
The procession wound through Cheapside, a slow-moving tide that flooded the wide thoroughfare with a riot of colour. Banners and pennons were hoisted above the heads of horsemen, the host of emblems announcing some of the highest nobles in the realm. Plumes of swan and peacock feathers streamed from the polished helms of knights, whose decorated breastplates were mirrors for the sun. Earls and dukes wore fur-lined capes over embroidered jackets trimmed with stiff gold braid, their hats intricately rolled or draped with pleated flourishes of silk, their chests adorned with jewelled collars. More gems and pearls sparkled on the satin gowns and ornate headdresses of ladies, whose veils flowed behind them in translucent wakes of gauze and taffeta. Above the clamour of hooves on the street, freshly sanded to soak up the filth that bubbled between cracks in the stones, drums rolled and trumpets blared.
Thousands of foot soldiers lined the route, perspiring in the July heat, hands clamped around sword hilts and the stocks of crossbows. Flies buzzed over quilted aketons, soiled with sweat from the long march south from Yorkshire and Cumberland. At the soldiers’ padded backs, London’s crowds pressed in, keen to catch a glimpse of the man who was to be crowned king. Some whispered of a prophecy that foretold three kings would rule in three
months. A prophecy that had now come true.
Richard of Gloucester rode in the midst of a noisy train of minstrels, heralds, yeomen and sergeants-at-arms. He was clad in shimmering cloth of gold, over which he wore a riding cloak of purple velvet, heavily lined and trimmed with cloud-soft ermine. Beneath the sumptuous robes he wore a coat of plates, the armour helping him to ride more comfortably, his spine supported by the encasement of steel. The garter of the Order of St George adorned his left leg and the gems on his collar and the gilt spurs on his heels winked and flashed. His dark hair was sleek with perfumed oil, his head bare, ready for the crown.
Before him rode the Earl of Surrey, bearing the sword of state, and at Surrey’s side was Buckingham, now Lord Chamberlain. Behind Richard came his close friend and confidant, Lord Francis Lovell, with the dukes, earls and lords, and, after them, the Knights and Esquires of the Body, among them William Catesby and James Tyrell. He had surrounded himself with such men these past weeks. Men whose loyalty was as strong as stone. Men to build himself a wall with. They had taken the places of those of his brother’s affinity, assuming titles and offices, supplanting those he did not know or did not trust. Along with their own crests, all these men wore the badge of the silver boar. He’d had a thousand of his emblems made to be distributed among his followers. Riding with them was his nine-year-old son, Edward, soon to be Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of England. Behind the men came Richard’s wife, Anne Neville, daughter of his dead cousin, the treacherous Earl of Warwick. She sat upon a litter of glittering samite, drawn between two white palfreys, her long dark hair flowing loose around her shoulders, waiting for her own crown.
Deafened by the noise of the crowds and the throb of drums, Richard scanned the tall buildings that rose for several storeys above the shops of goldsmiths and silversmiths that dominated Cheapside. There were faces in every window. Balconies, festooned with flowers and fluttering ribbons, groaned under the weight of bodies. There were even a few intrepid souls perched on rooftops, clinging to chimneys. Children were balanced on shoulders and babies hoisted, kicking and wailing, to see him. Tension and uncertainty had thrown their dark shrouds over the city these past weeks, but despite this and the heavy presence of northern soldiers London’s crowds seemed jovial enough. A fountain had been erected near St Paul’s, from which cascaded a stream of red wine, free for all citizens to dip their cups into, and Richard saw many flushed and grinning faces among their masses.
