Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  Winding east through the city, tall houses and church spires rose up around them. Despite the wind and rain, London’s thoroughfares were busy. Jack stiffened, seeing a group of men in masks and hoods spilling from a tavern behind them, laughing and shouting. It was just youths celebrating All Hallows’ Eve. There would be scores out when the work day ended, moving from tavern to tavern, many bearing torches or clad in masks to hide them from the mischievous dead. The kingdom might be up in arms, but it wouldn’t stop people taking the chance to enjoy the opening of a holy day. It was what he and the others had been counting on.

  As they turned on to Tower Street, Jack’s focus shifted to the hatch at the wagon’s front. Between the jolting bodies of George and the driver, over the heads of the horses, he caught glimpses of the fortress looming beyond the moat that encircled it. The first line of walls marched north towards Tower Hill and south to the river. Behind stood another indomitable stone curtain flanked by many towers, one of the most impressive of which, the Beauchamp Tower, thrust its curved bulk towards the city, reminding citizens of the might of its royal guardians. Beyond the double line of walls, the great square keep with its tall turrets rising over the battlements seemed to gleam even in the dimness of the day. The white heart of the fortress.

  The Bulwark Gate had been built to defend the landward entrance. It had been under construction on Jack’s last visit to the Tower, on the eve of the battle against Warwick’s forces at Barnet when he’d stood close behind his father in the great hall and listened to King Edward’s rousing words of war. Here, the wagon was halted by guards. Jack heard George explaining their business and showing the official invitation Bishop Stillington had given him and Hugh in their last meeting in Paris Garden. He caught the tremor in the playwright’s voice.

  After a moment, the heads of two men appeared in the doorway at the back. The steps were inside the wagon, lying on the floor, so the guards had to stand on tiptoe to peer in. They scanned the occupants, unsmiling.

  ‘We’ll be taking your weapons,’ said one, nodding to the swords among the group.

  ‘What are we supposed to fight with during our performance?’ demanded Robin Hood, as the guard gestured for him to pass down his weapon. ‘Our wit?’

  ‘They aren’t real,’ Jack said quickly as the guard’s expression hardened. ‘Look.’ He took up the blade Charity had given to him and held it out. ‘Whalebone,’ he explained, as the guard inspected it. ‘Painted to look like steel.’

  ‘Couldn’t hurt a child,’ added Ned with a cheerful chuckle at the guard, who frowned and passed it back to Jack.

  ‘What about those?’ the other guard asked, pointing to the crossbows lying between Adam and David Foxley.

  The two men held them up for inspection. The guard grunted, seeing the bolts fitted in the bows were tipped with cork rather than barbs. Jack noticed that Valentine Holt had pushed his arquebus behind him, up against the trunks of the painted trees. The gunner kept his hand low, hiding the glow of his fuse.

  ‘What’s in here?’ asked the first guard, knocking on the compartment below the stage. He disappeared from the door.

  ‘Props and costumes,’ came George’s sharp voice from the driver’s seat.

  There was a creak as one of the doors to the wardrobe was opened. Jack’s heart beat wildly in his chest. He caught Ned’s gaze. The man’s face was pale beneath the fringe of his tonsure.

  ‘You are welcome to look inside,’ George called. The tremor had gone from his voice, some of his natural pompousness returning. ‘But do please be careful. If something gets broken I wouldn’t want to have to charge your master more for our performance.’

  After a few moments, the wardrobe door was shut.

  ‘Head down to the next gate,’ came the guard’s voice. ‘The men there will direct you.’

  With a flick of the driver’s whip, the wagon pitched forward again, taking them in through the Bulwark. As they rolled down a muddy track alongside the moat, Jack wiped his hands on his hose. His palms were wet with sweat. The moat, rubbish dump, sewer and fishpond, filled the wagon with a pungent stink. Its waters were dark and broad, reflecting the sheer walls that rose above it.

  The entrance to the Tower was in the south-west corner by the Thames. A stone causeway led out into the moat, its waters cut off from the river by a wharf. The wagon bounced and jolted over the causeway to where a huge, semicircular enclosure – the Lion Tower – was defended by two gates and a drawbridge. Here, they were stopped again, the guards lingering doubtfully over the invitation George held out to them.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Jack said beneath his breath, eyes on Ned. But the large man didn’t catch what he said and Jack didn’t want to raise his voice for the others to hear.

  He leaned his head against the side of the wagon. This was supposed to be a night of celebration before tomorrow’s commemoration of the saints and the following day’s remembrance of the departed. A night for the living in the face of the dead. Stillington had told them the Constable of the Tower and his household always had games and entertainment on All Hallows. The new constable, Sir Robert Brackenbury, one of King Richard’s northern followers, had only been appointed in the summer, but their invitation to perform, secured by Lady Margaret through Brackenbury’s deputy – an acquaintance of her husband, Lord Stanley – had suggested the new constable would be no different to his predecessors. Why, then, on this day of revels, were the guards so wary and sober?

  After another search of the wagon and more questions, they were ushered in through the Lion’s Gate. Another gatehouse barred the way, then more causeway followed. Through the wagon’s open door, Jack glimpsed shadows moving behind the arrow slits on the parapet above them. Even after twelve years it was all so familiar. He could almost hear his father’s voice, naming the towers for him as they passed through. Last of the outer defences was the Byward, where they passed beneath the iron teeth of a portcullis to enter the Outer Ward, trapped now between the double line of walls, with the river to their right.

  After passing through another gate by St Thomas’s Tower, the square bulk of which projected into the Thames over the water-gate, the wagon slowed to make a left turn, then rolled in through the archway of the Garden Tower, beneath a second portcullis. As the hooves of the horses were muffled by the tunnel and the lantern swinging from the roof blazed brighter in the sudden shift to darkness, Jack’s heart thudded with anticipation. He thought of Stillington’s whispered words in the shaded secrecy of Paris Garden.

  The upper chamber of the Garden Tower, by the Constable’s Garden. That is where they were last seen.

  Now they were in the Inmost Ward, with the White Tower itself before them. The path sloped steadily upwards between two walls, the horses straining to pull their load. Where the ground levelled off and the walls ended, the wagon circled round into gardens that fronted a cluster of timber-framed lodgings. Trees, ripped of their leaves by the storms, swayed in the wind, the bare branches rattling like bones. This was where the constable and his household lived. The Garden Tower was behind them now, the entrance just beyond the gardens. Jack picked up his whalebone sword, locking eyes with Ned. But before the horses had come to a stop, he heard a man’s voice call outside.

  ‘Are you the players?’

  ‘The Marvellous Shoreditch Players,’ corrected George, clearly now committed to playing his part.

  ‘Indeed,’ came the reply. ‘Well, I’m afraid the performance has been cancelled.’

  The waves in the Channel were mountains, white-peaked and vast. The galleys slowly climbed, timbers creaking, masts straining, to crest the top, before plummeting down the other side, prows crashing headlong into the dark waters. The afternoon sky was almost black, huge bands of rain sweeping in to soak the decks and the men who fought to keep the vessels on their heading. The capricious winds that had filled their sails off the shores of Brittany had pulled them cruelly in different directions until, now, only five remained with the flagship.
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br />   Henry Tudor grasped the galley’s sides, eyes slitted against the lash of salt spray, the hoarse shouts of his men loud in his ears. For two days they had fought the wind and the waves, retreating and then advancing in the face of the tempest. Fifteen ships had left Paimpol’s harbour with him, but they had scattered quickly, each captain struggling with the storm, taking whatever bearing he could in the face of it. In the driving rain and with the huge swell of the waves, Henry had now lost all sight of the others.

  It was just such a storm that had taken him off course twelve years ago to land not in France as he and his uncle intended, but in the hands of Duke Francis. Would fate be so cruel again? As the galley groaned and rolled, lifted on another wave, Henry clung white-knuckled to the gunwales, his eyes on the distant line of darkness that was England, a prayer on his lips.

  ‘This is intolerable.’ George stood, feet planted, chin thrust defiantly towards the steward of the constable’s household. The rain had turned to drizzle, misting the air, but the wind still tossed the trees in the gardens. ‘Look here,’ said the playwright, holding up the letter of invitation and smacking it with the back of his hand. ‘My company was invited to perform this afternoon by Sir Robert Brackenbury’s deputy. Are these not his words? Is this not his seal?’ His anger was genuine, his nerves having vanished with the prospect of his lost fortune.

  ‘They are, yes. But neither Sir Robert nor his deputy is here. They were called away over a week ago. Upon their departure the Allhallowtide festivities were cancelled. I’m afraid we had no way of informing you.’

  ‘Where does that leave me? My men?’

  As Jack, Ned, Hugh and some of the players jumped down from the wagon to join the conversation and back George up, the steward opened his hands in apology. ‘The men of Kent have risen in rebellion against the king. Sir Robert and his forces have gone to aid the Duke of Norfolk in bringing them down and . . .’ The steward trailed off, momentarily transfixed by the sight of Hugh Pyke’s ravaged face.

  Jack cursed inwardly. So, the rebellion had started earlier than expected? They had concocted their plan with Stillington based on the intention that the uprisings across the south would begin around the same time – hoping the ensuing chaos would provide cover for their escape from England. The insurrection was supposed to help the rescue, not hinder it.

  George was muttering angrily about his losses. ‘My company and the horses to feed and shelter for the evening. And not a coin to pay for it? Well, then, I must insist on compensation!’

  ‘If there are still men here, sir,’ Jack ventured quickly, forcing the steward’s attention back to him. ‘Guards and servants. Would they not be served by our entertainment?’ George might be placated by a bag of gold, but he would not.

  ‘Only a small number of the constable’s household remains and most of the guards are on watch, manning the gates.’ The steward laughed lightly. ‘You would like as not outnumber your audience.’

  Jack saw by Ned’s expression that he was thinking the same thing. Fewer guards would aid their attempt. But how to draw them from their posts if there was no play for them to watch? He looked behind him, beyond the bushes and trees, to the Garden Tower, a brutish block of crenellated stone. Torchlight turned the lower windows to shimmering amber. His gaze moved to the window in the upper floor. So close.

  The steward nodded to George. ‘Again, my apologies.’

  As he went to turn away, there was a bright flash and an almighty bang that echoed off the walls. The sound shocked everyone. The steward ducked in fright, as did George and most of his players. One of the horses harnessed to the wagon reared up and a flock of birds erupted from the trees, filling the air with chatter. A moment later and doors were opening all around them, men rushing out from lodgings and nearby guardrooms, shouting in concern. Jack saw a puff of smoke drifting up from the ground near to where Valentine Holt was standing. He smelled sulphur on the wind.

  ‘I have come to tell you a story!’ roared Ned suddenly, stepping forward and opening his arms to the approaching men. ‘Of the greatest outlaw who ever lived!’

  George was staring at him, open-mouthed. The other players, most of whom had emerged from the wagon at the explosion, leaving the driver to calm the agitated horses, were looking at one another bemused. This wasn’t the script.

  ‘Some may call him the devil of the greenwood. Others a common thief! But to me – old Friar Tuck – I say he is a saint among men! And his name is Robin Hood!’

  The men heading towards them slowed their pace, alarm turning to curiosity. Swords were lowered. A group of cooks and kitchen porters in their aprons, one still clutching a ladle, grinned at the unexpected entertainment.

  The steward rounded on Ned, his cordial manner changing. ‘I said there was to be no performance.’

  ‘Sir?’ came a hard voice.

  Jack turned to see two men approaching, dressed in padded scarlet jackets and black hose. He recognised one of them immediately from Stillington’s description. A brute of a man he is, with orange hair and a bunched fist of a face. Reynold Glover – the gaoler of the princes. There was another guard with him. Jack looked beyond them to the Garden Tower. Could he execute the plan without Ned? He took a few paces back.

  ‘All is well, Master Reynold,’ the steward assured Glover. He sounded flustered now. ‘No cause for concern.’

  ‘Have you heard of Robin Hood?’ Ned was demanding of the cooks and porters.

  ‘Yes!’ called one young lad.

  ‘I can’t hear you!’ boomed Ned, cupping a hand to his ear.

  Jack saw more of them nod and laugh uncertainly. Other men and a few women were joining them, forming a ragged semicircle around the wagon. Reynold Glover was talking to the steward, his eyes on Ned. Jack took a few more paces back, edging beyond the crowd. There were bushes and trees to shield him. If the crowd’s attention remained on Ned he might just make it.

  ‘Of course you have!’ cried Ned. ‘That rogue! That scoundrel! Who makes rich men blanch and good women blush!’ He snatched up his black robes with a squeal and ran a few paces. Titan, thinking it was a game, ran after him barking.

  Most of the servants and a few guards were laughing now.

  ‘A rogue I may be!’ came a loud, haughty voice. Robin Hood stepped forward, clearly not wanting to be outshone by Ned. ‘But many and merry are the men who follow me!’ He brandished his whalebone sword.

  The other players, taking their cue, came forward, lifting their swords and cheering. The Foxley brothers were among them, aiming their crossbows at the crowd. Most of the audience clapped. Some jeered.

  ‘Ned’s got them,’ murmured Hugh, appearing at Jack’s side. ‘We go now or never.’

  Keeping his eyes on Glover, who watched the players unsmiling, arms folded across his chest, Jack slipped away with Hugh. Using the trees for cover they headed for the tower, eyes alert for danger. George, licking his lips apprehensively as he realised the game was on, saw them go, but everyone else in the grounds was focused on the impromptu performance. In the stormy twilight of the late afternoon no one noticed two green-clad figures moving quickly through the gardens.

  They approached the tower to the side, ducking beneath the window. A steep set of steps led to a small door on the upper level, closed and no doubt locked. The larger door on the ground floor was ajar, firelight shimmering beyond. Hugh already had his dagger in his hand. Jack, reaching in under his tunic, pulled out the rondel the older man had given to him. Behind them, Hood’s merry men had struck up a loud, lewd song. Laughter echoed off the walls.

  While Hugh kept watch, Jack peered in through the entrance to the tower. A short passage led to an arched door. To the right was the winch for the tower’s portcullis, raised over the archway they had entered through in the wagon, which was now beneath them. To the left was another door, half open, leading into what Jack guessed was a guardroom. As he entered the passage, followed by Hugh, he could see the room was lit by candles burning on a table where the
remains of a meal were scattered, along with a board on which a game of merrills was in play. There were three stools around the table. All empty.

  Hugh nodded to the door at the passage end, indicating Jack to check it. While he slipped inside the guardroom, Jack made his way down, his hide boots soft on the uneven flagstones. Outside, the merry men were still singing. The door was locked. It was stout and would take some effort – not to mention noise – to shoulder it open. Jack whipped round, hearing a muffled cry behind him. He was halfway back down the passage, dagger poised, when Hugh appeared from the guardroom, dragging out a man under the arms.

  ‘Christ, Hugh.’

  ‘Get the keys.’ Hugh, sweat gleaming on his face, nodded to the guard’s belt, where several hung from an iron ring.

  Jack shoved his dagger in his own belt, while he unbuckled the man’s. As he did so, he noticed four slits in the man’s white shirt between the side buckles of his scarlet jacket. Blood was already blooming on the linen. The guard was groaning, spit dribbling from his mouth. Jack tried not to look too much at his face as he pulled off the ring of keys, but he could see the man was younger than him.

  He tried the lock, cursing as his fingers fumbled. It snapped open on the third key he turned in it. Beyond was a door to the left, bolted shut and, to the right, a narrow stone staircase spiralling up. Jack took the stairs quickly, fingers brushing the rough walls for balance as he ascended. Hugh came behind, panting as he hauled the dying guard up after him.

  At the top another short passage lit by a guttering torch stretched down to what Jack guessed was the door he’d seen outside at the top of the steps. There was a second door in the wall opposite the torch. Reaching it, he saw a small wooden panel at head height in it. Sliding it across, he stared into the room beyond. Other than the ruddy glow of a fire somewhere the chamber was deep in shadows, although he made out the blocky shape of a bed, strung with curtains. Suddenly, a hand appeared in front of him, making him start. Fingers grasped the edge of the panel and Jack saw a crown of hair, gold in the torchlight.