by Robyn Young
‘Can I feed them, Father? Master Samuel says I can.’
The man, seeing Richard, doffed his cap and bowed. ‘Good day, my lord king.’
Edward grinned when his father nodded.
‘Careful now,’ Richard warned. ‘Your mother will be most upset if you end up as one of tonight’s special dishes.’
Samuel pulled a bloody bone from a wooden bucket which he handed to the youth. At once, the beasts pushed themselves up, two sets of ink-black eyes swivelling to fix on the prince. One opened its jaws and growled, low and deep. Richard felt the vibration in his chest. He watched his son push the bone through the bars. When one of the tigers lunged, snatching it from his fingers, Edward stumbled back with a gasp, half fear, half delight. The nine-year-old stepped up again quickly, to show the men he wasn’t afraid.
Smiling, Richard surveyed the gardens. The grounds of Windsor Castle were bustling with servants. A canopy of shimmering cloth of gold had been erected, beneath the shade of which silk rugs had been spread across the grass. Pages were setting out cushioned stools and benches, along with two carved chairs for him and his queen. Kitchen boys rolled casks of wine and barrels of cider down from the stores, while serving men carried out platters of sugared almonds, sticky dates and gingerbread, covered with linen to keep off the flies.
The castle formed an impressive backdrop to all this activity, its many towers and turrets reflected in the serene waters of its moat. Earlier, Richard had inspected the banqueting hall where servants had been busy unfurling freshly laundered cloths and the steward was directing the placing of gold goblets and silver basins that would later be filled with clove-scented wine from Bordeaux and sweet malmsey from Greece. White roses were everywhere, bursting whole from jewelled vases or strewn as petals across the tables. A space had been left clear on the top table for the centrepiece – the cockentrice – the front half of a capon sewn on to the hind of a pig: an incredible beast of a dish, stuffed with bread, spices and egg.
In the frenetic heat of the kitchens, cooks would now be sweating over pots of boiling lobster and crab, turning plovers and partridges skewered over smouldering coals, and fussing over jellies and possets, positioning sugared fruits around great wobbling constructions. Narrow passages between the castle’s many rooms would be clogged with servants hurrying on errands, while in grand chambers, the windows of which looked out over five thousand acres of parkland, lords, ladies and bishops would be preparing themselves for the banquet.
It was set to be a magnificent event, celebrating Richard’s last night in Windsor before he and the great train of nobles, officials and servants moved on to Reading and then Oxford on the progress that would take them, over the course of the summer, as far west as Gloucester and north to York. The tour was designed to reward his supporters and to show the rest of his subjects that his reign was now established, incontestable, but it was a costly business and the coins were pouring from his coffers.
Richard’s attention was caught by the figure of William Catesby, moving purposefully across the lawn towards him. The lawyer was wearing a new tunic of scarlet damask, embroidered with the black lions of his coat of arms. Catesby’s fortunes had soared in recent weeks, Richard making him Chancellor of the Exchequer and Chamberlain of the Receipts, as well as Justice of the Peace for five shires. The lawyer was now an Esquire of the Body and a full member of the Privy Council and in these roles was busy preparing for Richard’s first parliament, scheduled to begin in November.
Seeing Catesby’s unsmiling face, in grim contrast to the gaiety in the grounds, Richard felt his spirits sour. ‘What is it?’ he asked, as the lawyer came before him.
Catesby’s eyes flicked to the acrobats nearby, practising their leaps and tumbles. ‘May we speak alone, my lord?’
Leaving his son to watch the tigers devouring their meal, Richard led the way down a quiet path between fragrant bushes of lavender.
‘I have just received word from the Tower, my lord,’ began Catesby, when they were out of earshot. ‘There has been an attempt to free your nephews.’
Richard turned, eyes widening in shock.
‘It was stopped before any rescue could be mounted,’ Catesby assured him swiftly. ‘The conspirators didn’t even make it to the Tower. Their plot was uncovered by an official who had grown suspicious of one of his fellow wardens. Under interrogation the warden confessed and gave up the names of those who incited him to aid them. When caught the men admitted they intended to set fire to several buildings close to the Tower in order to cause a distraction, before gaining access to the princes with the help of the warden. The boys were to be smuggled out of the country.’
‘Who are these conspirators?’
As Catesby reeled off half a dozen names, Richard’s jaw tightened. He knew most of them. All were of his brother’s affinity. He knew he had his detractors: men still clinging to Edward’s ghost and the hope of his son. But he hadn’t expected such a blatant attack on his authority, not when he had taken so many steps to avoid such. His mouth felt dry as he thought of the consequences had the conspirators been successful: his nephew out there somewhere, a rival who might one day return and claim the throne.
‘You caught them all?’
Catesby hesitated. ‘Our men are confident they have the ringleaders, but they think it likely there were others involved. We know of one at least.’
‘Why hasn’t he been arrested?’ demanded Richard.
‘She, my lord. Lady Elizabeth was apparently at the heart of the plot. She must have known the warden could be turned. He claimed he had been chosen by her, as did the conspirators, all of whom were loyal to her husband. She was, it seems, also hoping to be rescued, along with her daughters.’
‘From Westminster?’ said Richard, his voice low. ‘You tell me she did all this from her sanctuary?’ He looked away, chewing on his lip. Perhaps the rumours were true? Perhaps Elizabeth was a sorceress.
‘She must have had help – someone who connected her with the conspirators and the warden. Whoever they are we will root them out.’
‘I want the watch on Westminster Abbey doubled. I want to know everyone who goes in or out. My sister will have God alone for company, you understand me?’
‘Of course, and we will continue to interrogate the prisoners. But—’
‘No. Hang them. Set their heads on London Bridge. If there are others involved – or those who may be inspired by their actions – let them see what fate awaits them.’
Catesby nodded slowly. ‘All of this we can do, my lord, but none of these actions is flawless. The abbey precinct is, as you know, vast and crowded. We cannot possibly block up all the holes or question everyone who comes and goes within its walls. There are cracks through which a determined man could slip. Likewise at the Tower.’ Catesby paused, waiting until Richard’s gaze was fixed on him. ‘If your nephews stay there they will continue to be objects of dissent – a focus for their mother and for rebels.’
‘The Tower is still the safest place for them.’
‘You misunderstand me, my lord.’
Richard stared at the lawyer for a long, wordless moment. The gems on Catesby’s scarlet hat gleamed in the sunlight. Finally, he shook his head. ‘We will speak no more of this.’
Catesby stepped forward, blocking the king’s path as he went to move off. ‘It is not without precedent. King Henry was—’
‘King Henry was a miserable old fool who was put out of his misery.’ Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You told me I could do this without war. Without bloodshed.’ He thrust out his hand towards the lawyer. ‘Yet this hand is already stained. By the blood of your master no less.’
Richard limped back down the path towards the bustle of the gardens. He’d had William Hastings buried in state here at Windsor, entombed in St George’s Chapel beside King Edward, his beloved master, and he had made sure his widow and sons did not suffer attainder, despite the charge of treason. He had done these things to assuage his own guilt, but the memory
of Hastings’s head being hacked from his body troubled him still.
‘Forgive me, my lord king,’ said Catesby, moving to keep pace with him. ‘I misspoke.’
‘We will talk later at the banquet, Catesby.’
‘I beg your pardon, but there is one last thing.’
‘Speak then,’ said Richard, not slowing his stiff stride.
‘I have also received word from our spies in France. There were reports that the two ships commandeered by Captain Edward Woodville landed on the Breton coast. Our men have since learned that Woodville has been granted safe conduct by Duke Francis of Brittany to where Henry Tudor is being held.’
Richard halted, turning on Catesby. ‘Tudor?’
Chapter 12
‘She lives here.’
Carlo di Fante studied the cottage that stood in the shadow of the church. Unlike most houses in Lewes, it was not made from wattle and daub but of stone. After all these months living in London, whose filthy streets were at least graced with a few grand palaces, he still couldn’t quite believe how humble England’s towns were. He missed Rome – its soaring white churches, elegant fountains and tiled streets, the splendid frescoes adorning the walls of the palazzos, the perfume of fennel and ripening pomegranates in verdant gardens.
In front of the cottage, a flint wall laced with ivy bordered a small garden. A woman sat on the grass, her white dress pooling around her. Beside her was a curly-haired boy, charging a wooden horse across the ground.
‘Is that her?’
‘A maid I believe.’
‘And you are certain he was staying here?’
‘Until the morning he left.’
‘You’d better pray, Vanni, that she knows where he went,’ growled a third man, studying the maid and boy from the shadows of his hood, his one eye narrowed in a watchful slit. Standing against the churchyard wall, a grey cloak shrouding his bulk, he looked like a gargoyle protruding from the stone. ‘He has four days on us.’
Vanni lowered his head, his hood slipping forward. ‘He wasn’t alone long enough for me to confront him. As I told you, the woman is the daughter of the Justice of the Peace.’ The man raised his eyes. ‘If something happened to her, Carlo, I doubt the townsfolk would be so ready to dismiss it as an accident.’
Carlo didn’t respond. The need for caution and anonymity had only got them so far. The need for success was becoming ever more pressing. ‘Go, Vanni. Wait with the others.’
The gargoyle’s eye swivelled to watch his comrade walk down the street. The corner of his mouth twisted. ‘You should have left me here.’
‘We cannot burn down every house in this town, Goro.’
‘And if we don’t find it? What then?’
Carlo didn’t respond, but stepped across the street towards the cottage. The wooden gate creaked as he pushed it open.
Grace was in her parlour reading, when the door opened. Martha looked in. She was carrying her son, her pretty face marred by a frown. ‘There’s a man here asking for you, mistress.’
Grace placed her book on the window seat, feeling a little leap in her chest. Had James returned? ‘Who?’
‘He declined to say.’ Martha lowered her voice. ‘But he looks foreign.’
Grace rose with a sigh. ‘Very well.’ Moving past the nurse, she tousled her son’s hair with a smile and headed down the dim passage to the door, Martha hovering uncertainly at her back. For many weeks after his death, Peter still got visitors. She suspected this would be another pointless message, offer or request, now delivered to a widow and a ghost. She opened the door, her face set in a resigned smile.
A man stood on the step, dressed in a long black robe, the draped sleeves of which were stained with dust from the cornfields. A sword hung at his hip, tipped with a gold teardrop pommel. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a beautiful set of red rosary beads with a silver cross hanging at his chest. She guessed him to be in his middle years. But perhaps he was younger? The pale traceries of scars that lined his tanned face and the intensity in his dark eyes made him difficult to age.
The man removed his hat. ‘Good day, mistress.’ His accent turned his English into another language. ‘I am looking for a young man I believe might be known to you.’
‘A man?’ Grace’s fixed smile vanished.
‘His name is James Wynter.’
‘What do you want with James?’ she asked, keeping her voice light, but tightening her grip on the door and shifting her body so she could close it if she needed to. She wondered if Gilbert, her manservant, was in earshot.
‘I need to speak to him on a matter of some urgency.’
‘Well, then I am sorry, for he left several days ago.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Grace felt the warmth of the lie creep into her cheeks, betraying her. She knew, by the look in the foreigner’s eyes, he didn’t believe her. ‘Perhaps, if you left a message, I could pass it to him if he returns?’
When the man said nothing, Grace shook her head. ‘I cannot help you more than that.’
‘It is vital I speak to him.’
Grace glanced past the man, seeing a figure approaching from the street. Her breath caught. This man was huge, his massive frame wrapped in a grey cloak, but it wasn’t his size that so arrested her, but rather the mask that covered half his face. It was as white as bone against his dark skin.
As the door slammed shut, Carlo heard bolts snapping into place on the other side. He turned to see Goro looming at the gate. Replacing his hat, he strode down the garden path to his comrade. ‘You should have waited.’
‘We may have trouble.’
Carlo realised he could hear raised voices further down the street, disturbing the afternoon hush. Halfway through the gate he paused, looking back at the cottage. There had been something odd in the woman’s face when she spotted Goro. Carlo was used to seeing fear when people laid eyes on the masked colossus – had heard some scream when the mask was removed – but this had been something else. Recognition?
Goro followed his gaze to the door. ‘What did she give you?’
‘Nothing useful. But we might have to move on. Our last visit may not have gone as unnoticed as we thought.’
Carlo headed with Goro down the street to where he had left Vanni and his men, his frustration rising. These past months he had followed one useless trail after another and he was still no closer to the object of his hunt. He had been convinced Thomas Vaughan’s mistress held the key, but either the woman had been made of stronger stuff than he’d expected or her choked pleas of ignorance, while her maid lay dead beside her and Goro tightened his hands around her throat, had been true. Either way, the answer had burned with her body.
‘You!’ A young man pushed his way past Vanni and the others, finger pointed at Carlo. ‘What is your business here? What do you want with my sister?’ The man’s eyes flicked to Goro, widening slightly.
Carlo raised his hands, smiling. ‘Peace, my friend.’
‘Your men here just tried to stop me going to her house,’ responded the young man, drawing himself up. ‘I am the son of Justice Shawe. I should have you arrested.’
‘There is no need for that,’ said Carlo, noting the bruises on the man’s face. ‘I merely wanted to ask if your sister knew the whereabouts of her friend, James Wynter.’
The young man’s cheeks darkened with anger. ‘James Wynter is no friend of my family.’
‘My apologies, I misunderstood. Perhaps, then, you might tell me where he is, so we may move on without further disturbing you or your sister?’
‘He’s gone to London as I heard it. But I . . .’ The young man hesitated. He looked away, one of his hands rising absently to his jaw, where the skin was mottled with a bruise.
Carlo waited. After a moment, his patience was rewarded.
The young man’s eyes flicked back to meet his. ‘I know who might be able to tell you where.’
Jack sat, held in Ned Draper’s silent star
e. Around them in the tavern the din of voices was punctuated by loud guffaws and the clank of tankards. Through the shutters came squawks and the frantic scuff of wings. A cheer erupted from the youths in the yard, gathered around their fighting cocks.
On entering the dingy building behind Ned, Jack had noticed the eyes of many of the tavern’s patrons follow him in. Perhaps evaluating his well-made clothes? When they sat, Ned calling the serving woman over, he’d kept his bag on his lap, one hand on the leather, through which he could feel the scroll case.
Ned’s broad, ruddy face had drawn in tight, his brow puckered. One large hand remained wrapped around the tankard on the table in front of him, his fingers white with his grip. The other was clenched in a fist that he beat softly on the sticky wood.
Jack eyed it warily, half thinking the former soldier was going to swing at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said into the silence. ‘I thought you would have known.’
Ned flattened his fist out on the table. ‘We’ve had a lot of news from out of London these past months. Most of it wrong as it turned out. But this? Executed?’ he murmured. ‘Executed by Gloucester?’
Jack understood the man’s disbelief. He couldn’t quite accept it himself. His father’s death was something he was still holding at arm’s length, while his mother’s had buried itself in his heart; a splinter of grief.
Outside in the yard, one of the youths called for bets on the next fight. ‘Black Devil against Blood Claw! Farthings in!’
Ned shook his head and exhaled. He had changed out of the green tunic he’d been wearing as Little John and was dressed in a stained linen shirt open at the neck, through which tufts of hair sprouted. Jack noted how the slabs of muscle on the soldier’s thickset frame had softened, turning to fat at his stomach. The curse of the warrior in peacetime. He guessed the last time Ned had seen battle with a sharpened sword would have been eight years ago, when King Edward went to war against Louis of France. The war, which amounted to a few skirmishes, ended quickly at the negotiation table when Louis, known as the Universal Spider for the webs of intrigue he’d spun around the Continent, sealed a peace with Edward that included an agreement not to attack the Duchy of Brittany, England’s ally of old. Sir Thomas had been there, heading the negotiations. Jack hadn’t. He had spent that war at home in Lewes, fighting straw men, bitter with the belief Vaughan had taken his real son with him in his stead.
