by Robyn Young
Leaving the worshippers shuffling into the arched darkness of the abbey’s west door, open like a vast mouth to accept them, Hugh led the way into the northern quarter of the precinct past the Church of St Margaret which bristled with scaffolds. Piles of broken stone littered the ground around the dilapidated structure. It was a dour day, cold for August, and the wind whipped dust from the rubble to sting their eyes. To their right towered the abbey, its immense walls supported by two tiers of flying buttresses, the jutting angles of which made the abbey look like some enormous, many-limbed creature.
Ahead, at the end of St Margaret’s churchyard, was a ramshackle collection of dwellings and makeshift shelters around a squat stone keep.
‘St Peter’s Sanctuary.’
Jack followed Hugh’s gaze to the two-storey keep, which looked like a small fortress, its thick walls clearly built to withstand a siege. All around the sprawl of dwellings and heaps of rubbish men lounged in groups, eyeing them as they walked through their midst. Some tended fires and stirred cooking pots, wood-smoke sharp on the air. These, Jack guessed, must be the sanctuary men. Westminster Abbey had sheltered refugees since the days of the Confessor. The right was intended to save men and women from unfair retribution for their crimes – the rough justice of the lynch-mob or the overzealous lawman. In reality, many used it to avoid trial or prison, so much so that the abbey’s northern sector had gained a reputation for harbouring scores of criminals, who were known to slip from the walls some nights to terrorise the neighbouring streets. No one could do a thing about it, not even the king, for to violate sanctuary was to risk excommunication.
‘How long has he been here?’ Jack asked Hugh, as they headed for one of the larger buildings near the keep.
‘Long enough to keep his neck from the block. Now, remember, let me do the talking.’
Two men stood outside the dwelling. One was peeling a wrinkled apple with a knife. They both moved to block the door as Jack and the others approached.
‘We’ve come to see Black Adam,’ Hugh told them.
‘Who’re you?’ said the one with the apple.
‘Hugh Pyke. He’ll know me.’
‘You better pray so,’ said the man, matter-of-fact. Turning, he pushed through the door.
Jack glanced at Hugh, who returned his look darkly. ‘God help me, Wynter,’ he said quietly, ‘whatever ill is visited on me for this I’ll visit on you tenfold.’
Jack didn’t respond. Hugh had made many such remarks over the past few weeks, but his threats had become fewer and less vehement. The man, he knew, was settling into his decision to stay and help execute the plan, his ship to Brittany long gone. Indeed, it was Hugh who suggested they go to Black Adam. Ned had needed less convincing, his old loyalty to Vaughan leading him easily into the pact the three of them had made.
The door opened and the man reappeared. He gestured inside without a word, taking a bite out of the apple as they filed past him into a hallway. The ruddy glow of firelight lit the end where an open door led into a cramped room. Inside were three men. One leaned against the far wall, his foot on a chest, a mace shaft balanced under his palm, its spiked head resting on the floor. A second, armed with an axe, stood near the door, watching them as they entered. The third, a thin man with white-blond hair and milky skin, sat hunched on a stool by the hearth, reading a book. With his long limbs angled around him he looked like a pale spider crouched by the fire.
‘Adam,’ greeted Hugh.
The man by the fire closed his book and looked up, unsmiling. ‘Hugh Pyke.’ His voice was soft.
His eyes, Jack noticed, had a pinkish hue. Black was not a name he had earned for his looks.
‘I have need of something,’ Hugh told him, coming straight to the matter.
‘Most who come here do.’
‘We’ve heard Lady Elizabeth Woodville is no longer in St Peter’s Sanctuary.’
Black Adam paused before answering. ‘No. Not since the soldiers came to take away her son. Little Prince Richard of York.’ His eyes moved to Ned, flicked away without interest, then alighted on Jack. ‘Who is your young friend?’
‘He’s nobody,’ replied Hugh, before Jack could answer. ‘Where is the queen-dowager now?’
Black Adam smiled, his teeth catching the red glow of the firelight. ‘He is handsome, for nobody.’
‘Adam.’
‘Lady Elizabeth is residing in the abbot’s lodgings in the southern corner of the precinct.’ Black Adam’s pink eyes flicked back to Hugh. ‘The abbot is unhappy. The king’s men have doubled their watch this past month.’
Hugh, Jack and Ned exchanged looks. They knew why.
‘Their presence is affecting all our activities.’
‘How would one of us get in to see her?’
‘No one but the abbot, a handful of servants and her physician may visit her. The guards check everyone who goes in and out. There is a password – a psalm. It changes daily.’
Jack felt his heart sink. In the crowded sprawl of Westminster, he had hoped it might be relatively easy to slip in unnoticed. Sanctuary was meant to keep the queen in, not others out.
‘We should have gone to the bishop,’ murmured Ned at his side.
Jack said nothing. Early on, he had dismissed Ned’s suggestion that they contact Robert Stillington, whom Hugh Pyke had since informed them was his contact in the king’s circle – the man who had recruited him and the others for the attempted rescue of the princes. Hugh had said Elizabeth Woodville was the one behind that attempt; the one who had given the bishop the names of men they could trust. Why now go to her messenger, when they might go straight to the source?
‘I can get one of you in,’ Black Adam said into their silence. ‘For a price.’
Hugh reached eagerly for the leather purse at his belt. He slowed his hand when the man closest to the door hefted his axe. Opening it, he withdrew a pouch and held it out. Adam took it and looked inside. ‘Are they real?’ When Hugh nodded, he handed the pouch to the man with the mace. ‘Which of you will it be?’
‘Him,’ said Hugh, looking at Jack. ‘Of us all he’s the least known.’
They had already agreed this, Jack insisting on it. This was his plan and, besides, he had something he thought he could use to ensure the lady’s confidence.
Adam’s smile returned, crooking his thin lips. ‘Handsome and unknown.’ He nodded to the man with the axe. ‘Tell Otto I need a servant’s garb and the psalm.’ As the man left, Adam uncoiled himself and moved up to Jack. ‘If you’re caught and you lead the guards back to me I will do worse to you than the king’s men ever could. To your friends here too. Do you understand?’
‘I do.’ Jack didn’t think the threat was idle.
Black Adam snatched out and grabbed his hand, his gaze fixed on the gold ring. ‘A caduceus?’ he murmured.
Jack fought the urge to wrench his hand away. Adam’s clammy touch made his skin crawl, but if the man knew something about the ring . . .? ‘What did you say?’
‘The symbol. It is called a caduceus,’ repeated Adam, gripping Jack’s hand in both of his, his long fingers playing over the gold disc and moving lightly across Jack’s knuckles. Musky odours of perfume and sweat drifted off him.
‘You recognise it?’
‘I haven’t seen a ring like this before, if that is what you mean. But the symbol I know well. It is the staff of the Greek deity, Hermes, patron of merchants.’ His smile widened. ‘And god of thieves.’ He cocked his head slightly. ‘I will buy it from you.’
‘It isn’t for sale.’
‘Everything is for sale. For the right price.’
Jack met his gaze. ‘Not this.’
Black Adam dropped Jack’s hand abruptly and stepped back, smile gone, his pale eyes cold. He settled himself once more on the stool and picked up his book. ‘Go. Otto will deal with you.’
The man with the mace took a step towards them to emphasise the command. Needing no further encouragement, Hugh led the way out into the wi
ndswept afternoon. Jack found the fresh air a relief despite the greyness of the day, glad to be away from the oppressive gloom of Black Adam’s parlour and the strange menace of the man himself. The three of them found a place to wait, watched by the sanctuary men.
Ned kicked at the dirt. ‘How do you know him then?’ When Hugh didn’t answer, he shrugged. ‘Odd fellow.’
Jack stared at the ring, the silver markings on the serpents entwined around the winged staff glinting as he moved his hand. A caduceus, Adam had called it. The staff of Hermes. God of thieves. He thought of the map. Was that what his father was?
Some time later, when the sky had darkened to slate and drops of rain began to hiss in the fires of the sanctuary men’s camp, a burly, muscle-corded man approached them, clutching a bundle of cloth and carrying a bucket. Otto, Jack guessed. He dumped the bucket at Jack’s feet, water sloshing over the sides, then handed him the bundle. ‘The Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish.’
Jack repeated the psalm in his mind as he shook out the cloth. It was a plain tunic of pale blue linen and a capuchon in the same material. Shrugging off his cape and doublet, Jack handed them to Ned. Reluctant, aware of Otto’s keen gaze, he unbuckled his sword belt and passed the magnificent weapon to Hugh. ‘Keep it safe,’ he murmured, pulling the tunic on over his undershirt and hose. ‘Won’t the monks notice a naked servant wandering around?’ he half joked as he tugged the capuchon over his dark hair, the liripipe hanging down his back.
Otto didn’t answer.
‘Be careful,’ warned Ned, his broad face devoid of its usual humour.
Picking up the bucket of water, Jack headed out of the encampment of refugee felons, leaving the northern quarter and his friends behind him. The rain was falling harder now, great splashes striking the ground, sending the crowds scuttling for the shelter of the abbey and the many outbuildings that clustered around it. He made his way towards the gate in the southern corner, walled off from the rest of the precinct by long, low buildings. There were fewer people here, just a handful waiting to pass through the archway. Approaching, Jack counted a dozen armed men.
Keeping his head down, the rain needling him, he joined the line. When there was just one man, another servant in blue linen, ahead of him, he went to step forward. He was brought up short as one of the guards smacked the flat of his blade against his chest. ‘Wait your turn.’
Jack cursed his carelessness, realising the gap was left so the man behind didn’t hear the password being spoken. The guard kept his sword and his eyes trained on him as he waited. Jack stared at the silver badge pinned to his cloak, the boar gleaming in the wet. As the rain trickled down his neck, he thought of the man whose emblem it was. An image of his father ascending the steps of a gallows flashed in his mind. He felt himself begin to sweat despite the cold. Was it madness even to attempt this?
‘Come,’ called the guard at the gate, beckoning impatiently.
‘The Lord watches over the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked will perish.’
‘Amen,’ said the guard sardonically, gesturing him through.
Emerging from the archway, heart thumping, Jack found himself in a large grassy area surrounded by buildings and scattered with vegetable gardens and animal paddocks. There were men working here, hoods up against the rain. Questioning a man shovelling muck from a stinking pig pen, he was pointed towards the abbot’s lodgings, a red-roofed series of buildings clinging close to the abbey. Jack glimpsed the top of the Jewel Tower at the corner of Westminster Palace, the huge complex of which lay just beyond the abbey walls. Walking as quickly as the heavy bucket of water would allow, he made his way into the lodgings. As he headed down a passage, where torches blazed in ornate sconces on the walls, he was approached by a monk.
Jack gestured to the bucket when asked what he was doing there. ‘I was told to bring water for the lady.’
The monk directed him towards a set of double doors at the end of the passage.
When he reached them, Jack set down the bucket and knocked. Listening, he thought he heard the sound of voices within, but faint and distant. The doors remained closed. After a moment, he opened one cautiously. A large hall stretched before him, lit by grey daylight that seeped through tall windows along one side. Rain bled down the glass. The cavernous space was cut off halfway down by wicker screens and piles of chests. The voices were coming from beyond the makeshift barricade, along with trails of smoke that coiled languidly towards the beamed ceiling where they vented through a louvre.
Jack closed the door and walked through the hall, his sodden clothes dripping water on the rushes. He picked out four maybe five voices, all of them female. Two sounded very young. Through gaps in the wicker screens, he saw a young woman with long golden hair hanging loose down her back. She was carrying a toddler in her arms, spinning in a slow circle, singing softly. She was beautiful. His attention on the woman, Jack didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, muffled by the rushes. As an arm looped tight around his throat, he felt the prick of a dagger in his side.
‘Walk forward,’ ordered a man’s voice in his ear. ‘Slowly.’
Jack did as he was bid, stepping past the screens into an area covered with blankets and bedding, surrounded by stacked chests and furniture. There was a fire pit in the centre, filled with smouldering coals. As he appeared, the gold-haired young woman turned with a gasp of alarm. Jack saw three others here – two young girls sitting together, a book open across their knees, and another, older and thinner, just on the fragile cusp of womanhood, poking at the fire. All of them had the same red-gold hair and blue eyes, the same high foreheads and snub noses. Jack knew at once who they were. The girls were the five daughters of King Edward, princesses of York and sisters of the boy his father had raised.
‘Thomas?’
Jack’s eyes darted right as a woman appeared from behind one of the screens. She was an older reflection of the young woman holding the toddler. It had been eight years since he had last seen her, on the day his father was knighted by her husband. Lady Elizabeth Woodville wore a white gown, drawn in beneath her breasts by a band of gold silk embroidered with scarlet crosses. Like her daughters she looked pale and drawn, her skin untouched by the summer sun. Despite this and her advancing years, her beauty was undimmed. He recalled his father saying it was not sorcery, but the simple spell of her loveliness that King Edward had fallen under when he married this English widow in secret, stunning the realm.
‘This lecher was spying on you, Mother. We should summon the abbot.’
Jack knew, then, that the man who had him was Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, one of the queen’s sons by her first marriage to a Lancastrian knight. When he’d first arrived from Seville he’d heard there were warrants out for the marquess’s arrest. ‘I wasn’t spying,’ he said, forcing the words out through the pressure of the arm around his throat.
The woman studied him, her soft brown eyes tight with caution. ‘I have not seen you here before.’
‘I’m not a servant, my lady.’ Jack flinched as the dagger poked his side. ‘My name is James Wynter. I served your husband in the command of my father, Sir Thomas Vaughan.’ If it had felt strange admitting this long-kept secret to Ned and Hugh, it felt nigh on vertiginous saying it to the former queen consort.
‘I know Sir Thomas Vaughan’s son,’ said the queen, her voice low and guarded. ‘His name is Harry.’
‘Sir Thomas was with my mother before he wed Lady Eleanor Arundel. They never married.’
After a pause, the queen’s gaze moved to her son. ‘Release him, Thomas. Let him speak.’
As Thomas relinquished his hold and stepped away, still training the dagger on him, Jack saw the marquess was dressed in apparel that more befitted a squire than a nobleman. A disguise perhaps. He kept his eyes on the man, who was around his own age, as he massaged his neck. ‘My lady, I am in contact with one of those who attempted to rescue your sons from the Tower – one who wasn’t
caught by King Richard’s men. We want to try again.’
The queen-dowager turned to the gold-haired beauty holding the child. ‘Elizabeth, take your sisters to play.’
The young woman took her eyes from Jack. She seemed to hesitate, then ushered up the two girls with the book. ‘Anne, Catherine.’ The little ones did as they were told, but the thin girl by the fire took a firm hand on the shoulder to move her. ‘Come, Cecily.’
Lady Elizabeth watched her daughters head down to the far end of the hall, then turned to Jack. ‘What do you propose?’
‘He could be here to trick you,’ warned Thomas. ‘He could have been sent by Richard, seeking a way to charge you with treason – remove you from sanctuary without risk to his soul.’
Jack lifted his hand, showing her the gold ring. ‘Sir Thomas left me this. I know your brother, Earl Rivers, wore one too.’
‘He did,’ murmured the queen, ignoring her son’s protest. ‘He said it was a gift from the French court.’
‘My father said the same.’
Elizabeth sat on a cushioned bench by the fire, her hand drifting to her throat. Jack recalled Hugh saying Rivers had worn the ring on a chain around his neck. He saw sadness and pain clouding her eyes. ‘My father died alongside your brother and son, my lady. They died for your son, their king. Let me help you restore him.’
‘It is strange you should come to me now,’ she murmured, looking up at him. ‘Last week I received word that Robert Stillington is continuing with our plan. He sent my physician with a message, asking for my consent.’
