Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  The man complied, not a moment too soon, the throb of hooves filling the air over the peals of the bells. George and the wagon driver, who was clutching a bloody nose, were visible briefly, framed in the back door.

  ‘You’ll hang for this, Draper!’ yelled the playwright. ‘I swear to God!’

  Robin Hood, seeing the danger bearing down on them, brandished his whalebone sword and led George and the rest of the players into the safety of an alley, just as the Tower guards came galloping on to the street.

  Jack grabbed hold of the side as the wagon jolted forward again, Ned whipping the horses into frenzied flight. He counted ten guards in scarlet jackets and gleaming helms, long swords, spiked maces and war hammers gripped in their fists.

  ‘Move aside.’

  Valentine Holt appeared at Jack’s shoulder, feet planted wide to steady himself. In his hands the gunner held two of the clay pots Jack had seen in the sack. The fuses sticking out of the ends were fizzing red. He dodged out of the way, as Valentine tossed them through the door. One shattered as it hit the stones, black powder spilling around it, the fuse winking out in the wet. The other landed whole, cushioned by mud. The first few guards rode on over it unheeding, but, as the others followed, bright fire exploded beneath the hooves of their horses. One piebald palfrey reared in fright. Another, charging close behind, ploughed straight into it. Both animals went down, smashing into the street. One guard was thrown from the saddle, the other screamed as his leg was pinned beneath his flailing steed.

  Ahead, the street curved sharply north, turning into East Cheap. As the wagon rocked around the corner, wheels sliding in the mud, the rope holding the painted wooden trees against the side of the stage snapped. Jack and Valentine ducked as the trees came crashing down on top of them. Prince Edward had crawled to the hatch and was holding on to the sides of the opening for dear life. As Hugh moved to help, pulling the scenery away, Jack struggled to his knees. He felt something hot trickle into his eye. Blood or sweat. The thoroughfare was busier here, London’s citizens going home for the evening, or else heading to church for vespers or the tavern for a holy day drink. Ned roared at them to move. Screams rose, people forced to scatter before the wagon and the riders that came after it.

  Two of the guards were gaining on them, clearly attempting to ride round to the horses at the front. David Foxley was now seated in the open door, legs spread to balance himself. Raising his cocked crossbow, one hand gripping the staghorn-covered tiller, fingers of the other poised over the trigger, he aimed at one of the nearest guards. The released bolt shot straight into the man’s chest, slamming him backwards. The guard was bounced along for a moment, before he slipped from the saddle.

  While David slid aside to reload the bow, Adam moved to take his place, raising his own. This time, the bolt struck one of the horses in the neck, sending beast and rider reeling into the front of a mercer’s shop. Valentine was cursing, trying to shake black powder into the flash pan of his loaded arquebus, every jolt scattering it. Staggering upright, Jack grabbed hold of one of the fallen trees and tossed it out of the door. Hugh joined him and, together, they threw out whatever they could – scenery, the steps, props and packs left by the players. The pursuing guards were forced to steer their horses wildly to avoid the falling debris.

  ‘Wynter! Get behind me!’

  Valentine wedged himself in the doorway, the stock of the arquebus buttressed against his chest. He had slotted the lit fuse in the jaws of the gun’s serpentine, his fingers poised over the lever. Jack planted himself at his back, one hand clutching the gunner’s shoulder, the other the side of the wagon, holding them both in place. Valentine aimed at one of the horsemen, pricking their mounts on harder, having ridden over the obstacles. Jack braced himself. As Holt squeezed the lever on the bottom of the stock, the serpentine flipped up, bringing the burning fuse to the flash pan, where a touch hole was bored into the side of the barrel. The priming powder caught with a hiss, igniting through the hole, where more powder had been packed around the shot. The flashing rush of fire down the barrel was followed by a huge bang. Jack felt the kick through Valentine’s body, the air before them clouded with smoke. The shot ripped into one of the guard’s shoulders, almost taking off his arm and bringing him to a wheeling halt.

  As Valentine pulled up the smoking barrel and moved aside, allowing David to raise his reloaded crossbow, the Tower guards, their number diminished, started to fall back. One began to blow on a horn. No doubt, thought Jack, summoning others to their position. Ned slowed the wagon, before goading the horses down a narrow street, heading south towards the river. They jolted madly over the potholed alley, wheels scraping the sides of buildings in places.

  Jack wedged himself down beside Prince Edward. ‘If we can get to the dock we’ll be safe,’ he told the shocked boy. ‘We have a vessel waiting for us there, carrying papers for passage to Brittany.’

  ‘Brittany?’ whispered the prince, gripping the hatch as the wagon lurched off a wall.

  ‘Your uncle, Edward Woodville, has been raising a fleet there with Henry Tudor. They plan to confront King Richard. The Duke of Brittany will take care of you until it is safe for you to return and claim your throne. Lady Margaret Beaufort has arranged it with her son.’

  Before the prince could respond, Ned yelled from the driver’s seat. The wagon tipped forward violently, everything and everyone in it crashing to the front. Jack was knocked into the prince. There was an almighty splash and, suddenly, water was pouring in through the hatch. The wagon had gone down one of the slipways, straight into the Thames. Edward cried out as the freezing water swirled up around them, his white gown floating in it. Titan leapt from the wagon as it slipped further forward and more water came rushing in through the back. Grabbing his sack, trying to keep it and his gun out of the wet, Valentine followed the dog. Adam and Hugh scrabbled after him, weapons raised.

  ‘Quick!’ Jack urged, taking Edward’s hand and guiding him up the slippery boards.

  As Hugh, waist-deep in water, reached out to take the prince, the wagon slid further in. The horses were screaming. David had passed his crossbow to his brother and was wading in to help Ned. Jack crawled on his hands and knees back inside, ignoring the shouts of the others. As he pulled open the trapdoor that led into the dressing compartment, water cascaded down the steps. Jack clambered down, the cold taking his breath away.

  The small compartment was flooding quickly. Charity’s costumes and the players’ props had been scattered all over the place by the wild ride through the streets. Bent beneath the low roof, Jack clung to one of the beams and searched through the debris. He found his bag first and fished it from the water. Feeling the hard length of the scroll case inside, he slung the pack over his shoulder. The wagon lurched forward again and now the water was churning around him, almost up to his neck. He could hear muffled yells outside. With a gulp of air, he ducked under and scrabbled around.

  After several attempts, one of which yielded Hugh Pyke’s sword, which he tossed through the hatch above him, Jack found his father’s weapon, still in the old scabbard he’d had made for it. Fighting his way through the trapdoor he took Hugh’s blade and half waded, half swam from the drowning wagon. Hugh was there to help him up the slime-coated slipway to where the others were waiting, their breaths fogging the air as they panted. As Jack handed Hugh his sword, he saw that Ned had managed to free the horses. The beasts were struggling their way back to terra firma. The wagon of the Marvellous Shoreditch Players was sinking slowly, the river bubbling up to claim it. The bells that had rung for All Hallows had ceased their clanging and the city was eerily quiet.

  Ned bent forward to catch his breath. ‘Christ on his cross!’ His tonsure had somehow stayed on and the fur fringe dripped in his eyes. ‘If King Richard doesn’t gut me, George will.’

  ‘Let’s get to the quay,’ said Adam.

  Jack realised they were a short distance from London Bridge. Not far to the east, behind them now, was Lion Quay and thei
r waiting transport. They would have to scrabble their way along the wharves to reach it. Townsfolk were approaching through the alley having heard the commotion. Some moved to help, but recoiled, seeing the raised weapons and grim faces of the men. A horn sounded somewhere close by. Another joined it. Hoof-beats echoed off the walls of the buildings.

  The six men and the prince set off across the riddle of wharves and slipways, skirting crates and piles of wicker baskets, slipping on fish guts. They had not gone far when they saw figures bearing torches coming from the east. Some wore scarlet jackets, others a mismatch of clothing and armour. Jack guessed the men of Tower Hamlets, who owed service to the Tower, had been called to arms. All bore weapons, from keen-bladed swords to bone-crushing clubs. The riverside was swarming with them. In the gusting torch-flames he saw some jumping aboard boats, clearly searching them.

  ‘Down here!’ shouted Ned, leading them into an alley, as some of the men at the vanguard spotted them and more horns were blown.

  ‘We’ll never get to the quay,’ panted Jack as they ran, rats scurrying before them. ‘There are too many of them.’

  ‘We hide out somewhere,’ David responded. ‘Try and reach it in the morning.’

  ‘And risk being hunted through the night?’ Hugh shook his head. ‘I’ll not swing on King Richard’s gallows. We need to go. Now.’

  ‘Go where?’ Jack demanded. ‘Without those papers how will we make it safe to the Duke of Brittany’s court?’

  Ned joined in, adding his concern to Jack’s.

  Valentine came down on Hugh’s side, advocating leaving the city by other means. ‘If we even get to the boat you can be sure they’ll have eyes on the river. They’ll sink us before we pass the city limits.’

  ‘My aunt.’

  Jack slowed and looked back. Prince Edward was standing there, gasping for breath. The wig had come off and his filthy white gown was clinging to him.

  ‘Lady Margaret of Burgundy. She will look after me. And offer you safe haven at her court in Mechelen,’ the prince added, looking between them.

  ‘Bill,’ said Hugh suddenly, turning to Ned. ‘He could get you to Erith at least and his ferry is small enough to avoid attention.’ He tugged his leather pouch from his belt and handed it to his friend. ‘There’s more than enough to secure passage for three of you to Calais.’

  ‘What about you?’ said Ned angrily, making no move to take the pouch.

  ‘Someone needs to keep them off your trail.’ Hugh glanced at Holt and the Foxley brothers. None of them faltered at the request. He pointed north down the alley, where the streets opened into the city. ‘You can lose them in the crowds. We’ll hold them here as long as we can.’ He thrust the pouch at Ned. ‘They’ll be closing the bridge soon. We’ll follow when we can. To the court of the duchess, my lord?’ he added, his eyes flicking to Edward.

  The prince nodded.

  Ned grasped his friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I brought you into this.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have done it without me.’ Hugh shoved him away. ‘Go!’

  As the shouts and running footsteps came closer, Ned, Jack and Edward sprinted north, leaving the other four to close in behind them, weapons raised.

  Chapter 27

  The three of them wove their way through Southwark’s web of alleys, past St Mary Overie and the Bishop of Winchester’s palace, light shimmering through the jewelled windows in the deepening dark. The heavens had opened again and rain pattered on their heads as they ran. They had only barely made it across to the borough.

  London’s streets had been thronging with All Hallows’ revellers, some in painted masks, others wielding fire for the dead. Hard to tell at times who was celebrating and who was searching for them, they had been forced to hide and, by the time they reached the bridge, the watchmen had been closing the gates for curfew. It was only by Ned, still in his Friar Tuck costume, pleading with the guards to make an exception for a man of God that they were allowed through.

  On Bankside the waters were starting to recede with the outgoing tide, the river creeping back from the doors of buildings. The place was quieter than usual, but lights were burning in the upper windows of the stews. Come war or flood, thought Jack. Titan darted ahead up to the door of the Ferryman’s Arms, barking in expectation. His dirty coat was plastered to his skin, making him look small and bedraggled.

  ‘Bill drinks at the Rose,’ Ned told Jack, pausing to draw breath. ‘Stay here while I find him.’

  As the large man set off towards the stew, Jack turned to Edward. The prince had torn off the white gown, the better to run by, and was now just a pale boy with filthy clothes and fair hair lank with rain. He looked like a street child, not a young man who had almost been crowned king. He had wrapped his arms around himself and was shivering violently. Now they had stopped running, Jack could feel the chill seeping into his own limbs, the wind turning his wet clothes to ice around his body. At this rate they would never even make it to Calais, he thought, his mind on Edward’s father, said to have died from cold in his vitals after a fishing trip. Titan was still barking at the door of the Ferryman’s Arms.

  ‘Stay here,’ Jack told the prince, heading for the tavern. There were blankets and bedding still in some of the upstairs room.

  As he reached the door, telling Titan to quiet, he realised the frame was splintered. He paused, cautious now. Everyone on Bankside had seen Hugh leaving. In this den of thieves and miscreants it wasn’t surprising that someone had been in to check the place for anything of use or value that might have been left behind. He drew his father’s sword as he entered, in case whoever had shouldered their way in was still inside.

  The tavern was dark and silent, save for the sound of water churning uneasily down in the cellar. He crossed the chamber carefully, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom, picking his way between the wooden posts that supported the beams of the ceiling. He didn’t see the stool until he crashed into it, cracking his shinbone. Swearing, he gave it a shove with his foot, sending it skidding across the wet stone floor. It struck something in the shadows. Something that knocked it aside. Jack saw a huge figure loom out of the darkness, one eye gleaming, the other hidden beneath the pale contours of a mask.

  In the chaos of the past few hours, he had forgotten all about the man he had chased. He backed away, his father’s sword brandished before him. The man advanced, slowly, hands balled in fists, his eye flicking from Jack to the blade.

  Jack halted, standing his ground. ‘Was it you? Did you kill my mother?’ The words came in a rush. The man said nothing. ‘In Lewes!’ Jack shouted, rage spurring through his shock. ‘Did you kill her, you son of a bitch?’

  The man paused a few feet away, his broad shoulders hunched, feet planted; a fighter’s stance. His eye narrowed and the half of his brow that was visible creased. He seemed to be considering the question. Or perhaps he just didn’t understand. Then, he spoke. One devastating word. ‘Yes.’

  With a yell, Jack flew at him, swinging his father’s war sword in a violent arc, meaning to carve the man’s masked head from his body. Vengeance screamed its will inside him. The man hunched down, amazingly quick for his size. While Jack was still mid-swing, the giant barrelled forward, grappling him round the waist and throwing him over his shoulder. Jack saw the beams of the ceiling as he was spun round, felt the weightlessness of the fall. The strap of his bag – still sodden with river water – snapped and his sword flew from his grip, before his back slammed into the floor, winding him. He heard something roll across the tavern as he landed. He tried to grab for his fallen weapon, but something came down hard on his chest, pushing all the air out of him. It was the giant’s boot.

  Jack groaned as the man pressed down on him. He seized the man’s foot, but it was like trying to shift stone. The breath was leaving him in a whistling rush. His ribcage was surely about to snap. Hugh’s dagger! Jack scrabbled at his waist, until he found the hilt. He tugged the blade free of his belt and plunged it into the side
of the giant’s leg, just below the knee. The man roared, but didn’t budge. All Jack’s air had gone. He couldn’t breathe. In the corner of his dimming vision, he saw a second figure at the foot of the stairs. The figure reached down and picked up something off the floor. Jack remembered the thing he’d heard rolling as he fell. The scroll case. He wheezed in helpless protest, his flailing hand stretching towards it.

  Suddenly, there was a loud crack. The masked man lurched forward. Jack rolled away, gasping, to see Ned standing behind the giant, holding a stool. As Ned dropped it and wrenched free his bollock dagger, Jack saw motion to his side. The second figure, who was dressed all in black, had hold of the map and was running for the door.

  Ned went for the giant, who reached down and pulled the rondel dagger from his leg with a growl. ‘Go!’

  Needing no further encouragement, Jack snatched up his father’s sword and raced out into the evening.

  Prince Edward was standing on the dock, holding Titan in his arms. Bill was beside him, grasping a tankard and looking scared.

  ‘I can’t take you,’ the ferryman called as he saw Jack appear. ‘Not tonight. Not with the tide so high.’

  ‘Get him in the boat, Bill!’ Jack shouted fiercely, before running for the maze of alleys in pursuit of the man who had taken the map.

  The rain was falling harder, striking Jack’s face, blinding him. He blinked it away as he splashed through the wet passageways, the man visible, just ahead. He was gaining on him. His father’s sword gleamed in the wet, the words carved along its length flickering into life in the yellow light seeping from the buildings that hemmed them in.

  As Above, So Below

  With a burst of speed, Jack caught the man. He didn’t want to kill him – not until he had his answers – so he rammed into him instead, sending him flying. The scroll case slipped from the man’s hand and rolled away through the filth. Pushing himself to his knees, the man scooped up a handful of mud and flung it at Jack, who threw up his arm to protect his eyes. The man staggered upright, lunging in through Jack’s defences to clutch his wrist and twist it viciously aside while head-butting him. Jack jerked back his head at the last moment, but the man’s forehead still smashed into his mouth, mashing his lips against his teeth. He tasted blood. Kicking the man hard above the knee, causing his leg to buckle, Jack wrested his sword arm free. Despite the fact he seemed to be wounded, one arm clutched tight to his side, the man was clearly an expert fighter, fast and fluid. Jack reckoned he might well be dead by now if the man had a blade of his own. Fury had led him here, but caution was creeping in.