by Robyn Young
‘To rescue your sons?’ questioned Jack, unsure whether to be excited or troubled by this news of the bishop’s continued involvement.
‘He said that must come later. First, we must challenge my brother-in-law’s rule.’
‘You could jeopardise everything speaking to this man, Mother,’ Thomas seethed.
Elizabeth raised her palm towards her son. ‘Enough.’
The sadness was gone and Jack saw fierceness in her now. He thought of the story he’d once heard of how Edward, first laying eyes on her, desired her so much he put his dagger to her throat to make her submit to him and how the young widow had not surrendered to the threat, but instead had told him she would rather die than live unchaste. In that moment, the king’s lust was said to have bloomed into love. Just months later, he had taken her for his wife and queen.
‘You know how precarious our position is, Thomas. Richard may not dare violate the sanctuary, but the abbot is nervous. He worries our presence here may jeopardise his standing with the king. We might not be welcome here much longer. They only need stop our supply of food and then what? I have to trust someone.’
Thomas’s jaw remained clenched, but he lowered the blade.
‘Bishop Stillington has been in contact with Lady Margaret Beaufort,’ Elizabeth explained to Jack. ‘They are preparing to challenge the king.’
Jack spoke carefully, keeping the emotion from his voice at this revelation. ‘You said they asked for your consent?’
‘For the hand of my daughter, Elizabeth. If they remove Richard and set my son upon the throne, she will marry Henry Tudor.’
Jack saw the uncertainty in her face. ‘But this troubles you?’ When she bowed her head, he pressed her. ‘My lady?’
‘I fear for my sons. If threatened, will Richard harm them somehow? He may be their kin, but I well know his ruthlessness. One of my sons has already suffered it.’
Thomas’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his brother, strung up on Gloucester’s gallows.
Elizabeth rose, pacing the cramped area. ‘My boy, Richard, had a fever when the soldiers came to take him. They told me it was so he could watch his brother being crowned, but I knew my brother-in-law wanted control of him.’ Finding herself hemmed in by the chests and screens stacked up all around her, she turned back to Jack. ‘I was scared for my daughters, for what might be done to them if I refused, and so I gave him to them.’ Her eyes were bright in the firelight. ‘God help me, I gave them my son.’
‘Might there yet be a way to free them?’ Jack questioned, praying she would tell him yes – she still had influence in the Tower. ‘If there is I have men who are willing to try.’
Elizabeth shook her head, crushing his hope. ‘The warden I trusted is dead. I have no doubt Richard will make sure whoever is now guarding them is loyal to him.’ She settled back down on the bench. After a pause her brow furrowed. ‘But perhaps . . .?’ Her eyes flicked up to Jack. ‘You say you have men willing to try?’
Chapter 19
‘There is nothing?’ Richard turned when no one spoke.
Francis Lovell and James Tyrell, Richard Ratcliffe and William Catesby: they were all before him, his trusted counsellors – and none with an answer for him.
Richard drew in a sharp breath, the night air cool in his lungs. ‘No word at all from our spies in France or Brittany?’
‘Only what we know so far, my lord,’ responded Ratcliffe. ‘That the nature of Henry Tudor’s relationship with Duke Francis appears to have changed and that Edward Woodville has been allowed to join him, along with his men.’ He eyed Catesby, clearly expecting the lawyer to support him.
‘We will know more soon, my lord,’ Catesby assured the king. ‘Then we can judge how best to proceed.’
‘How best to proceed?’ Richard looked out across the manor’s gardens, the expansive darkness of which was jewelled by fitful plumes of flame. The string of torches had welcomed his guests that evening, riding in to Woodstock for another magnificent banquet, lords and ladies falling over themselves to be touched by their king’s munificence. The pulse of drums and metal twang of lutes echoed from inside the hall, his guests now dancing off the gluttony of the feast, the remains of which would feed the beggars and pigs of the parish for a week. ‘I would think it damn well obvious how best to proceed. I want Henry Tudor in England under lock and key, not a free man in Brittany in company with my enemies.’
‘What mischief can they work with two ships and a paltry force between them?’ The gruff question came from Sir James Tyrell. The night made deep shadows of the scars on his face. ‘If Woodville and his company show themselves in our waters, we’ll take them. The duke can give Tudor all the freedom he desires, he still poses little danger to us.’
‘Little danger?’ Richard’s voice was taut. ‘From the last heir of the House of Lancaster?’
At this, Tyrell and Catesby both began speaking at once.
‘Surely, my lord, you do not fear Tudor will make a claim?’
‘He cannot. The Act of King Henry barred that line from the throne.’
As his men talked over one another, Richard turned away. They were right, he knew. The royal bloodline had flowed, in one of its many sly twists, into the mighty House of Beaufort, forking in the last generation into his cousin, Buckingham, and into Henry Tudor through his mother, Margaret. But theirs was a line with a kink. Descended from John of Gaunt and his mistress, Katherine Swynford, they were born to an illegitimate branch. The Beaufort family had been legitimised in parliament decades ago, but King Henry VI’s Act prevented any claim to the throne. Still, Richard found scant comfort in his men’s assurances. Had they all forgotten, he wondered acidly, what steps he himself had taken to become king?
Francis Lovell cut in, raising a hand to quiet Catesby and Tyrell. ‘Henry Tudor can – and will be dealt with.’ He moved up to Richard, his boots sinking in the dewy grass. ‘We need only remind Duke Francis of the treaty your brother signed that keeps King Louis from Brittany’s door. The duke needs your friendship far more than he needs Tudor’s.’ Lovell placed a hand on the king’s shoulder. ‘My lord, cast your attention to matters at hand. The progress is going well and your support grows. Plans for your parliament are well under way. Your enemies here at home have been suppressed. Yes, there is work to be done. But, for tonight, celebrate your victories. Do not burden your heart with foes abroad whose fates can be sealed in due course when you have the time and resources to spare.’
Under his friend’s smile, Richard felt an easing of the worry that had clouded his mind since the spectre of Henry Tudor had risen. Francis cocked his head questioningly, wanting to know if he’d heard him. Richard put his hand over Francis’s and nodded. Ever since they were youths, growing up in Warwick’s house together, the man had always known what to say to soothe his troubles. It was one of the reasons he had made him his chamberlain.
‘There you are, husband!’
At the voice, the men broke apart, turning to see Anne stepping out through the doors, the jewels on her indigo gown trapping the firelight. Removing their hats, they all bowed to the queen, who moved up to Richard, her cheeks pink with wine and dancing.
‘Our guests are missing you.’ Anne threaded her arm through his, glancing at the others with a smile and an arch of her brow. ‘It is the hour for dancing, my lords. Not affairs of state.’
‘Well said, my lady,’ said Francis, offering her his own arm and gesturing her to lead the way. ‘Come, my lord. Let us dim the stars with our merriment.’
Richard allowed himself to be led in through the doors of Woodstock manor, where the heat and music enveloped him, forcing away all thoughts of the distant Henry Tudor.
The morning was clear, with a crispness to the air that whispered the promise of autumn. A breeze skimmed the Thames, misting their faces with spray. The river was still quiet at this early hour, the hush punctuated only by the slow sweep of the ferryman’s oars and Ned’s retching. The former soldier sat huddled unhappi
ly at the stern, occasionally turning to empty his stomach into the water, bringing flocks of gulls swooping into their wake.
Jack was having trouble keeping his own breakfast down, not from the gentle motion of the boat, but the excess of the previous night. After leaving the abbey, the three of them had spent the evening murmuring plans in the dank underground vaults of Purgatory. The tavern, just north of Westminster Hall, was famous for its sweet cider. Jack knew it was strong when Ned, vomiting violently into the Thames several hours later, proclaimed he could see mermaids swimming beneath the surface. If there were, Jack, struggling to hold the stupefied man upright, hadn’t seen them. He had been too focused on the hulk of Westminster Abbey, a pale giant rising in the darkness behind him, his mind on the desperate queen, trapped in her nest of belongings.
‘Are we nearly there, Bill?’ Ned groaned.
‘But a few strokes of the oar, Master Ned,’ replied the ferryman, a jovial man, who worked one of the Bankside ferries and who – for a barrel of Hugh’s ale – had agreed to row them to Westminster and back.
‘So, we’re agreed?’ questioned Hugh, shifting closer on the prow’s bench. He kept his voice low, eyes on Bill, who had his back to them. ‘While we wait for word, I’ll contact the others?’
Jack could smell his breath seeping through the slit in his face – bad meat and rotten fruit. The terrible wound was all the uglier for the brightness of the morning sun. He leaned away, his stomach churning. ‘You think you can find them?’
Hugh scanned the water. ‘The Foxleys, yes. Holt may be trickier.’ He looked back at Jack. ‘But if I kick enough rocks he’ll appear.’
Jack’s mind filled with an image of a slab of a face streaked with powder burns. Thick blackened fingers, the glow of a fuse reflected in glittering eyes, the stink of sulphur. The breeze off the water ruffled the hair at his neck. ‘Do we need Holt?’
‘No,’ came Ned’s croak from the stern.
Hugh frowned over Bill’s shoulder at him. ‘He could be useful.’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe. If we need to draw attention to ourselves.’
‘It isn’t just a matter of us getting in – however we do that. We need to get them out and then away to safety. It will take more than just the three of us and there’s no one I trust as I trust them.’ Hugh’s face was set. ‘Holt may be disturbed, but if it came to a fight there’d be few more lethal.’
‘Disturbed?’ scoffed Ned, from the stern. ‘That makes two of us.’ He turned and heaved over the side.
Hugh leaned back against the prow, his eyes boring holes in Bill’s back. It was clear he was impatient to talk this through and to hear what, exactly, Jack had discussed with the queen-dowager – the finer details of which had been too dangerous to reveal in their surroundings last night. Hugh’s last misgivings had been swept aside with the visit to Westminster. He was in this now, invested as much as Jack, although for different reasons. Jack, watching the tree-fringed banks of Paris Garden drift past, wondered whether Hugh’s eagerness was born out of a second chance to fulfil the mission that had cost his comrades their lives, avenging their deaths and defeating Richard, or whether it was more mundane. If young Edward was crowned king, what rewards might await the men who had made it possible?
Jack had wondered this himself since meeting the queen. Might this be his chance to gain the two things his father had dangled before him, but never delivered – a chance for answers and maybe, just maybe, his long-awaited knighthood? The thought had galvanised him, sweeping aside much of his apprehension at the perilous road he was now walking.
As the buildings of Bankside rose ahead, Bill rowed them to his spot at one of the jetties, the vessel grating against the piers before he brought it in to the stairs.
‘Come by later,’ Hugh told him.
‘You can be sure I will,’ replied Bill, tying the ferry to the mooring post.
As Jack climbed up to the jetty, he realised could hear Titan’s muffled barking. He halted at the top, seeing a man banging on the door of the Ferryman’s Arms.
‘What is it?’ asked Hugh, coming up behind him. His face tightened as he saw the figure, then he grunted in relief. ‘It’s Bernard.’ Hugh lifted a hand as the man spotted them. ‘Come. Let us see what he has to say about your map.’
A short time later, Jack was standing with Hugh and his bespectacled brother-in-law in the tavern’s shuttered gloom, lit only by the stuttering light of a few tallow candles. Ned had since struggled to bed, asking them to fill him in later. Jack, having taken the map from its hiding place in an empty barrel in the cellar, spread it out on a table.
Bernard, a brusque-mannered man with iron-grey hair and pinched features, drew one of the candles closer to inspect the sheet of vellum, his eyes widening in eager interest behind the glass of his spectacles. ‘Wherever did you find this?’
Hugh glanced at Jack, who gave a small shake of his head. ‘It is best we don’t say.’
Bernard frowned, but returned to his study of the map. ‘Beatrice is well, in case you are wondering, brother.’
‘Not particularly.’
Bernard pursed his thin lips. ‘I thought, when I got your message . . .’ He looked as though he were about to say something further, but fell silent, his attention pulled back to the map. Jack realised he was peering at the cluster of islands Hugh had called Antillia. His gaze moved to the faint coastline beyond them, which disappeared off the edge of the map. ‘What in God’s name . . .?’ Bernard stiffened, staring at the crest in the corner. Removing his spectacles, he met Hugh’s gaze. ‘Where did you get this?’ His voice was sharp. He no longer looked eager.
‘It was left to me,’ Jack cut in before Hugh could answer. ‘By someone close to me.’
‘Left to you? I’m afraid it was not theirs to leave.’ Bernard gestured at the map. ‘What they’ve left you is nothing but trouble.’ But even as he said this, Bernard’s eyes were drawn back to the map as if spellbound by the inked lines threading their way across the vellum.
‘What are you saying?’
Bernard paused for a long moment before answering. ‘Have you heard of the Trinity? The ship I mean?’ When Jack shook his head, he continued. ‘She is a merchant galley.’ He pointed to the crest on the map. ‘The Trinity worked out of Bristol, shipping wool to Seville and Lisbon. Around three years ago she set out to deliver a shipment as usual, but rather than returning home after unloading her cargo, she continued, sailing west from Portugal.’
‘To where?’ asked Hugh, staring at the white expanse off the Portuguese coast where only the west wind blew.
‘She had a mission. To find hy-Brasil.’
‘You told me that was a legend,’ Hugh retorted.
‘I thought it was. Until I heard the stories. The Trinity’s first voyage was almost a disaster. The captain and his crew found the oceans west of Portugal wild with storms. One sailor I spoke to recalled to me the terrors they faced during nine weeks at sea. In the end they were forced home without ever sighting land. The following year they tried again. This time they headed further north, where they found the waters rich with cod.’ As he spoke, Bernard’s finger traced a line over the map, up from Ireland, past Thule in the far north-west, out towards Antillia. ‘These islands were the first land they sighted. But, as I heard it, they also found something else. Something bigger.’
‘Hy-Brasil?’
‘Perhaps, yes. Or maybe Markland or Vinland. Or even Cathay or Cipangu.’ Bernard’s face had lit up again, excitement squeezing out his nerves. ‘The voyages were supposed to be secret, but sailors are worse gossips than old wives. They didn’t land at that time, so I was told, but planned to return to explore what they had seen.’
‘And did they?’ Jack wanted to know.
Bernard shook his head. ‘The man heading the voyages was Thomas Croft, chief customs officer at the port of Bristol. Soon after the Trinity returned from her second voyage, he was arrested and imprisoned in the Tower. The charge was illegal fishi
ng, but I know a clerk who witnessed his trial and he told me that Croft, throughout his questioning, maintained he had been searching for new lands to the west and, what was more, he had a mandate to do so from King Edward himself. Indeed, he claimed the king had invested a huge sum of money to finance the expeditions.’
Jack thought of the barber on Birchin Lane speaking of the closure of the Medici Bank in London. As I heard it, King Edward borrowed a fortune from their officials here and never repaid it. Several years ago the barber had said – right around the time of the Trinity’s voyages. Jack felt those broken threads he’d been clutching at starting to join, creating the first vague sense of a picture. The three of them started round at a rapping on the tavern door.
‘Ignore it,’ murmured Hugh. ‘It’s probably just Bill eager for his ale.’ He turned to Bernard. ‘Why do you think Croft was arrested, if he was working for the king?’
The knocking came again, more persistent now.
Bernard tapped the map. ‘If this went missing on his watch maybe Croft was suspected of stealing it?’ He looked at Jack. ‘If this map is indeed the product of a voyage financed by the crown its theft would be punishable by death. As I said, whoever gave it to you has left you with nothing but trouble.’
As the knocking became a hammering, Hugh cursed. He strode to the door, pulling his dagger from his belt. ‘Damn it, Bill, when I said later . . .’
Jack hardly noticed him go. His mind had filled with an image of his sword punching into Gregory’s stomach in the room of the Seven Stars. Could Gregory have been an agent of King Edward? Or an ally of Thomas Croft – sent to hunt down their stolen property? Had he killed an innocent man, while protecting a guilty one?
‘Jack.’
He turned to see Hugh crossing to him, his scarred face dark with suspicion. ‘There’s someone here asking for you. Says he’s the servant of a woman named Grace.’
