by Robyn Young
Jack paused outside. ‘Show yourself.’
Silence came back to greet him, thick in the stale air. After a pause, he entered. The chamber was dominated by a large bed, its four posts rising to the ceiling, void of curtains. It must have once been an impressive solar, he thought, looking around. Now, faded, moth-eaten drapes sagged across the windows which projected out over the street. The curtains were open a crack, letting in an arrow of light. A quick check behind the door and under the bed told him the room was unoccupied. Had he imagined the movement in the window? Some trick of the light, or the drapes drifting in a breeze he could not feel?
He crossed to the window and parted one of the curtains, spreading sunlight through the room. As he turned, feeling the bite of frustration, he realised the floor was white with dust. He could see his own footprints making wide strides to the window. But they weren’t the only ones. Running almost parallel, from window to door, were a second set. These prints were much smaller than his. A child’s?
Moving quickly now, Jack searched the rest of the rooms on the upper floors. Each was empty. He headed downstairs into a narrow, shadow-thronged hallway that spanned the ground floor and checked the shuttered room at the front that led out on to the street and then the hall itself, which had two ornate benches built into a wall. Faint marks on the plaster above outlined great squares where tapestries would have hung. He tried to imagine his father sitting here, discussing – what? Maybe, if what the barber said was true about the debts, he had negotiated between the Medici Bank and King Edward? Pushing through a door into the back room off the hall, Jack found his first real sign of life.
He halted in the doorway, eyes darting over the mess. The place was scattered with belongings, in sharp contrast to the rest of the house. Blankets lay strewn across the floor along with clothes, packs and half-eaten food. Stubs of candles had been placed near a hearth and there was a coil of rope in one corner. Jack headed in and rifled through the items. Nothing held much value or interest, except for a small velvet pouch that contained a handful of silver coins. As he turned one between his fingers, he saw it was decorated on one side with a fleur-de-lis and on the other with an image of King Louis XI of France. Picking up a small grey cloak, he thought of the footprints in the upstairs room.
Behind him, out in the hall, he heard the creak of a floorboard. Dropping the cloak, Jack crossed to the doorway and looked out, scanning the galleries above. Nothing moved. Silence settled again, uneasily. Glancing back into the room, he fixed on a section of the floor near the back wall. A faint outline was cut through the boards, partially obscured by a blanket. A trapdoor.
It was dawning on him: the realisation that the only thing to be found here was maybe a frightened child and a destitute family. But, still, he felt the need to check. One last look and then he was gone, back to Southwark in the hope that Hugh Pyke had something more than troubled anger to offer.
Crouching by the trapdoor, he pushed aside the blanket, revealing a slim iron handle. Readying himself, he pulled it open and stood back, pointing his sword into the hole below. Wooden steps led into black. He took them carefully. At the bottom, he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Light seeped down from above him, bleeding into the cellar, which stretched off into several arched openings. In one area, he saw barrels and a few sacks chewed by rats, mouldy grain spilling out across the stone floor. Through another archway was a small door. There was a bolt, but it wasn’t in place. Jack crossed cautiously to it. The door opened into darkness, filled with the damp smell of cold stone. He had the sense of space extending before him and a draught drifted down to greet him.
He closed the door and searched the rest of the cellar, looking behind the barrels and sacks, pushing through spider webs, feeling something skitter down his neck. It was on his last pass that he saw the safe. The iron door was set at chest height in the cellar wall. It was open, revealing a dark void. He stuck his hand inside, fingers digging into the corners, finding only dust and stone. Jack froze. He could hear voices, faint, but coming closer. He looked towards the trapdoor. No, not there. He glanced at the door in the corner of the cellar. The voices were coming from behind it, echoing down the tunnel towards him. Instinctively pushing the safe closed, he went to turn for the steps. Jack stopped, his gaze caught by the symbol engraved on the safe’s iron door. It was outlined in gold, glittering in the light bleeding through the trapdoor. Two serpents entwined around a winged staff.
The voices were close now. Several men, speaking French. Jack raced across the cellar and up the steps. Emerging from the hole, he swung the trapdoor closed and dashed through the hall. As he took the stairs to the gallery, the sound of the trapdoor falling back echoed below. Voices filled the hush. He heard a man call out.
‘Amelot?’
Once in the chamber he had entered by, he sheathed his sword and pushed open the window. There were a few people on Birchin Lane, browsing the shops. Footfalls on the stairs behind him told him he had no time. He squeezed out of the window, slid down the pentice and dropped heavily to the street. Jack pushed himself up and ran for Lombard Street, calling for Titan.
Amelot climbed out of the window, startling a dove that flew into the sky before her. Grabbing hold of the gable, she scrabbled lightly up on to the roof where she perched, looking out over the maze of rooftops and church spires stretching all the way down to the broad green Thames. It was beautiful up here. Another world, quiet and empty. Hers alone, except for the birds. The wind ruffled her short hair. Far below, she saw the man appear in the street, running from the house. He had almost caught her as he’d come racing up the stairs, but was too focused on getting out to notice her, flattened against the wall of the gallery where she had ventured down from the beam.
From the lofty shadows above the hall, she had watched him search the house, cursing her carelessness. The man had looked up unexpectedly from the street, staring straight at her, making her drop the curtain in fright. She knew he’d seen her when she heard the window of the room below creak open and his footfalls on the boards. At first she had taken him for a thief, but he appeared too well-dressed, although she judged that his silk jacket, too tight around his broad shoulders, was not made for him. There was a sword at his hip and she had no doubt that this belonged to him, the muscles of his arms and his confident stance telling her he was a fighter. As he moved between the upper rooms, just below her, she had studied the dark hair at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat, and the tanned skin – a deeper brown than most Englishmen. She never quite saw his face, just glimpses of a strong jaw and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. It was when he began to descend the stairs, one hand on the gallery rail, that she had seen the gold disc of the ring he wore.
The Huntsman wore one just like it – had worn it since she’d known him. The sight of it had made her heart thump like a fist in her chest. Was this man the answer to the riddle they had been sent to solve? Despite her excitement, she had stayed where she was. Her master said they could trust no one and, besides, she couldn’t confront the stranger alone. Hearing her comrades returning, the trapdoor slamming back, she had slipped eagerly from her hiding place, but when the man had fled to the room he’d come in by, she knew there wasn’t time to alert them and, instead, she had gone for the window.
Seeing him merge with the crowds on Lombard Street and head east towards Gracechurch, a little white dog running at his heels, Amelot followed, scrabbling from roof to roof, leaping the narrow gaps between.
Chapter 15
Jack arrived on Bankside sweating and out of breath. He had run most of the way from Lombard Street, his mind a swarm of thoughts and questions, buzzing at him. Leaving Titan drinking from a puddle, he crossed to the river’s edge to catch his breath. Below him, green waves lapped the slime-stained timbers of the jetty. Shards of sunlight were scattered in the wake of a barge.
Jack held out his hand, staring at the ring, the gold disc glinting in the dappled light. It
had only ever been a ring, important simply because it was Sir Thomas’s. It had meant nothing to him, until now. The ring, his father’s letter, the safe in the abandoned house – they all connected to Vaughan, but he felt the mystery spiralling outwards too. But to where? And to whom? He stared at the serpents twisting around their staff, wondering who he might find to tell him what the symbol meant.
The blood pounding in his temples, he tried to think back through the conversations he’d had with his father over the years: in his mother’s house in Lewes; in exile with King Edward in the Low Countries; on the training field on frozen dawns learning to ride and to fight; marching on the road to war. Were there answers to be found somewhere in all those disparate moments? Things Sir Thomas had said? People he knew? Jack closed his eyes. How could he connect any of it when he knew the meaning of none of it? It was impossible – like trying to weave a tapestry out of a handful of broken threads.
Turning from the water, he walked towards the Ferryman’s Arms. There was no sign of Ned. The whores outside the Swan had disappeared. Bankside was busy, but he guessed nothing like it would be when the sun started to slip and the boats began to cross the river. Men’s sins were best shrouded, he knew, in darkness. When he reached the tavern door, Jack saw the frame was splintered, as if the door had been forced. Ned. He pushed and it opened.
Beyond was a darkened chamber, the shutters closed over the windows. Barrels were stacked against one wall. There were a few tables and stools spaced out around the place, which was divided by wooden pillars, holding up the low ceiling. A couple of the stools lay overturned on the floor. One was broken, its legs shattered. It looked like something heavy had landed on it. Jack smelled stale ale and the brine of the river. There were echoes of older smells here too. Years of sweat and piss, sour breath on heated conversations and blood spilled with drunken punches. He saw a trapdoor open in one corner, no doubt leading down into the cellar. Nearby was a pile of bags and a few small chests. It looked like Hugh might be leaving. Certainly, the tavern seemed otherwise empty. The hearth was cold, but filled with ash, as if a large fire had blazed there recently. A few scraps of paper were littered around it, charred at the edges. Jack turned, hearing low conversation.
Moving in deeper, he saw Ned and Hugh sitting at a table, a flagon and two tankards in front of them. Hugh rose quickly on seeing him, snatching a dagger from the table. When he saw who it was, he scowled. Approaching, Jack realised Hugh was injured, his hand crudely bandaged with a cloth, soaked through with blood. As Ned looked round at him, he saw the man’s right eye was swollen shut.
‘A minor disagreement,’ explained Ned. He frowned past Jack. ‘Where’s my dog?’ Without waiting for an answer, he whistled. Titan barrelled in, leaping around his legs. Ned pinned the animal to the floor with one hand and gave him a violently affectionate shake.
‘You left the door open?’ growled Hugh, striding to it and bolting it.
Pulling up a stool, Jack arched a questioning eyebrow at Ned, who poured ale into one of the tankards and pushed it along the table towards him. He filled Hugh’s and kept the flagon for himself. ‘Our friend here is in trouble.’
‘Ned,’ warned Hugh, heading back to his stool.
‘I told you, you can trust him. He’s Sir Thomas’s son.’
‘So you say.’
Ned turned to Jack. ‘Those poor souls we saw on the bridge – Hugh was with them.’
‘With them?’
‘He was involved in the attempt to rescue Edward and his brother from the Tower.’
Jack stared at Hugh, stunned.
‘And now I’m a wanted man.’ Hugh flexed his bandaged hand with a wince. ‘And you’re a son of a bitch, Ned Draper.’
‘You said Richard’s men don’t know who you are,’ said Ned, ignoring him.
‘I said I don’t think the bastards know me.’ Hugh gestured around him. ‘We kept this place, where we made our plans, a secret from the warden we were in contact with at the Tower. And I’d say my comrades must’ve died without my name on their lips, or else I’d be sharing a pole with a river view.’
His tone was acerbic, but Jack could see the fear in his pale blue eyes. He watched Hugh pinch his scarred flaps of skin together to take a drink. Even with the trick, ale still dripped between his fingers on to the table.
‘Either way, I’m gone.’ Hugh wiped his wet mouth. ‘Day after tomorrow. There’s a ship leaving Erith, bound for France. I know the captain.’
‘Hugh—’ began Ned.
‘I’ve heard tell Edward Woodville is in Brittany. Other men of King Edward’s affinity are heading there. Men who may well have suffered the same fate as Sir Thomas and Earl Rivers had they stayed. Brittany offers us sanctuary.’ He looked at Ned. ‘With the Tudors.’
‘Tudors?’ questioned Jack, as Ned’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought they were prisoners of the duke?’ He hadn’t heard that name for some years. His father had rarely spoken of Jasper Tudor – fellow Welshman and half-brother of King Henry – with whom he had once, long ago, been associated. After King Edward’s victory at Tewkesbury, Jasper and his nephew, Henry, had fled. Word was they had hoped to reach France, but bad weather had sent them instead to Brittany, into the territory of Duke Francis II. As far as Jack knew the Lancastrian exiles had been there ever since, in the duke’s custody.
‘It seems their gaoler has become their ally,’ Hugh explained.
‘So you’ll throw your fortune in with a Woodville and two damned Lancastrians?’ demanded Ned.
‘If they are foes of Richard of Gloucester? Then, by God, yes.’
‘King Edward tried for years to get that imp, Henry, returned to England. Is your head so ale-addled you’ve forgotten the Tudors are our enemies?’
‘Our own master once served with them.’
Ned gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘Vaughan was a man of York at heart even when he was allied with the Tudors and their kin – as well you know.’
Hugh thumped his bandaged hand on the table. He didn’t flinch. ‘And it was a God-damned man of York who killed Sir Thomas in cold blood!’ His eyes flicked to Jack. ‘The charge of treason against your father? A damned lie – like all the others Richard of Gloucester lay before him and on which he climbed his way to the throne. The claim our king’s marriage to Lady Elizabeth was invalid, that he had married another before her? Another lie. Young Edward is the rightful heir. Gloucester took his crown and betrayed our king, his own brother.’
‘You cannot know for certain the marriage contract was a lie,’ murmured Ned. But this had got his attention.
‘Trust me, it was a falsehood invented by Richard and that bastard, Catesby. Lord Hastings was killed for it. When he discovered their plan he tried to stop them. That’s why he lost his head.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Jack cut in, before Ned could speak.
‘We had a man in the royal court. He sought us out, recruited us on behalf of the queen-dowager to rescue her sons and smuggle her and her daughters abroad.’
‘You’re sure he wasn’t the one who betrayed you?’
‘I am. His head would roll just as swiftly as mine if he were discovered.’
‘What did you hope to achieve by rescuing Prince Edward?’
‘We’d have set him on the throne, of course. We knew of the discontent rising in the south at Gloucester’s rule. We would have used that fire to wage war upon him. But it was supposed to happen early, before he could gain the support of the realm.’ Hugh brooded into his tankard. ‘I hear the king is now showering the nobility with gifts and gold, buying up their loyalty.’
Jack sat back, feeling something new – something sharp and eager. He realised it was gratification, knowing that there were men out there with the desire to fell Richard of Gloucester. Despite all his uncertainties about Vaughan’s intentions, the man was still his father and Gloucester had taken his life. This felt like some small measure of justice. He realised his fist was clenched on the table.
Hu
gh leaned forward. ‘Well, now you know my secret, Wynter. Let’s see yours.’
Ned nodded when Jack hesitated. ‘Show him. It’s what we came here for.’
Jack took the scroll case from his bag, Hugh watching him intently as he pulled out the roll of vellum. Ned wiped the table with his sleeve and pushed aside the flagon so Jack could unroll the parchment. They used the tankards to hold down the edges that tried to curl back on themselves. When it was laid out before them, the three men stood looking down at the world.
Hundreds of dots of islands, jagged coastlines and great masses of land were etched across the vellum. Europe, Asia, Africa. At the corners, the four winds blew, their cheeks puffed out. Curving lines of longitude and latitude encircled it, with corresponding rows of numbers crossing and descending. Jack had looked at the map several times in Seville, tracing the distant coastlines and strange names of places with his fingers, trying to divine its importance to his father. It was far less ornate than the only other world map he had ever seen, framed on a wall in Westminster Hall. This one had fewer depictions of sea monsters lurking in the white expanse of oceans and was more simplistic in its detail.
Hugh walked around the table to study it, squinting in the gloom.
Arms folded, Ned watched his friend. ‘Have you ever seen one like it?’
Hugh didn’t respond. He moved from the eastern side of the map, his eyes scanning westward across France, Brittany, Castile and Portugal. His brow furrowed and he leaned closer, his finger touching down on a cluster of islands, far out in the north-west, beyond Thule, almost at the edges of the map.
