by Robyn Young
At the end of the passage was a double set of doors, painted around the edges with foliage and birds, making it look as though they were entering a garden. The man in the fur cloak knocked twice, then opened them, motioning for them to enter. Beyond was a spacious chamber, the walls of which were hung with a stunning array of tapestries. Patterned rugs covered the floor and a large armoire showed off a glittering collection of gold plate. A woman stood waiting for them.
Margaret of York, dowager-duchess of Burgundy, was incredibly tall, like her brother King Edward had been, with a plain, but not unattractive face and steady blue eyes. Her slim figure was swathed in a russet gown, swagged at the sides to fall in intricate folds and drawn in at the waist with a wide black silk band. The fur trim on the collar and cuffs looked soft – expensive – and the sculpted headdress, encrusted with pearls and trailing a gauzy veil, made her look even more statuesque.
Jack guessed she was in her thirties, but it was hard to tell. There was a maturity in her eyes and bearing that didn’t match the youthfulness of her face. Margaret had a reputation throughout Christendom as an intelligent and forceful woman. When the duke had followed his expansionist ambitions, leading his men to war in his dream of establishing a vast kingdom for himself, she stayed behind and administered to the duchy, unflinching in the face of the cunning King Louis’s attempts to undermine her.
‘Edward,’ she murmured, coming forward. Crouching, she cradled the prince’s drawn face in her hands. ‘My dear boy.’ Her eyes were bright as she studied him. ‘I heard such terrible things. People said you were dead. Killed at my brother’s hands.’ She shook her head. ‘Now I see I was right not to believe them.’
Edward bit his lip, then began to speak, his French soft and perfect, telling her all that had happened – from his abduction at Stony Stratford and the executions of his uncle, Earl Rivers, and his guardian and chamberlain, Thomas Vaughan, to his imprisonment in the Tower with his brother, declared bastards and unsure they would ever know freedom again.
Margaret listened in silence, her eyes searching her nephew’s face. When he had finished, she rose and turned away slightly. Jack saw her expression had changed; concern replaced by doubt. He felt uneasy, wondering if he had been right to bring the boy here. Edward had been convinced his aunt would take care of him, that they could trust her. Had that just been a young boy’s naïve hope?
The dowager-duchess turned her eyes on Jack, as if noticing him for the first time. She glanced at the man who had led them here. ‘Does my nephew’s companion have a name, Thierry?’
Jack answered before the man could answer. ‘My name is James Wynter, my lady. You knew my father, Sir Thomas Vaughan. He was with my mother before his marriage,’ he added swiftly, trying to sweep this detail in under the conversation.
‘Can I stay here with you?’ Edward asked Margaret, fatigue plain in his voice. ‘You could write to my uncle? Ask for my brother to be freed so he can join us here? Tell him I do not want to be king. He has nothing to fear from me.’ He forced a smile, tentative, hopeful. ‘I should like to meet my cousin, Mary. You spoke so fondly of her.’
A shadow passed across Margaret’s face. She took a moment to speak. ‘My position here is not what it was, Edward. Much has changed for me since I saw you last in England. Mary died last year. A hunting accident. She was pregnant with her third child. Neither she nor the baby survived.’
Jack realised that the hush of the palace was sadness. It seemed to radiate from Margaret, spilling out into the air around her. His father had spoken of the closeness between the duchess and her stepdaughter, Mary; a bond struck the moment they first met at Margaret’s marriage to Duke Charles. Margaret had raised the girl as her own and, when the duke died and Mary inherited the duchy, had been the one to counsel her stepdaughter and arrange the young woman’s marriage to Maximilian, the powerful Habsburg heir of the Holy Roman Emperor – a marriage that had produced two children.
‘I am truly sorry, my lady.’
Edward’s sorrow seemed genuine, despite the renewed uncertainty of his position. It was the first time the fear and tension had lifted enough for Jack to see the courteous young man beneath.
‘King Louis may be dead, but the duchy remains in French control. As does Mary’s daughter, whom I consider no less than my own granddaughter. Maximilian, who holds Flanders for their young son, has since lost control of the regency and my grandson to enemies in the county who wish to control the succession. The duchy balances on a sword edge. One tilt and we could slip into war. Since the truce sealed by your father, France and England have been at peace. By sheltering you – in spite of my brother – I could risk the wrath of both kingdoms. And I have not yet given up the hope of a free and independent Burgundy.’ Margaret’s voice strengthened at this. ‘Richard is one of the only kin I have left. I cannot go against him.’
‘He locked us up for months,’ Edward repeated, meeting her gaze. ‘My brother is sick. I pray to God every night not to let him die alone in his cell.’ His eyes flicked to Jack at this, accusing.
Margaret hesitated. ‘I may be able to talk to Richard.’ After a moment, she cupped Edward’s cheek gently once more. ‘But, come, you must be famished.’ She plucked at his shabby cloak. ‘And in sore need of clothes.’ Putting a hand on his shoulder, she nodded to the man in the fur coat. ‘Thierry, show Master Wynter to lodgings for the night.’
As the man moved to guide him to the door, Jack realised that now he had delivered Edward he had lost all control of him. He should have known his relationship to Vaughan didn’t make him fit to remain in the prince and duchess’s company. His blood was not the right kind.
In the dark depths of Newgate Prison it was impossible to tell the true extent of his injuries, so instead the agony turned to colours in his mind: pulsing scarlet for his shoulders, radiating into throbbing purple across his back, ugly green for his face, putrid yellow for his stomach. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, trying to sit as close to the wall as possible to avoid any pull in his dislocated shoulders and legs from the manacles’ chains. Day and night had no meaning. For Hugh Pyke, time had become an endless, feverish stretch of pain and gnawing hunger.
At Salisbury the king had personally overseen his interrogation. He’d held out for two days offering up only screams, torn from his throat, before the king had been forced to turn his attention to dealing with the last of the rebels. Hugh had been left, limp and delirious, in the care of Reynold Glover, who brought him back to London, the better to work on him. There followed days in the Tower, where they broke him, inch by agonising inch, on the rack. All the while, their constant questions seethed like angry wasps in his ears.
Where is the boy? Who has him? Where have they taken him?
He had answered by reeling off a list of place names, yelling them louder and louder with each twist and stretch of his limbs on the dread machine, the ropes creaking with the strain.
Oxford! Edinburgh! Lancaster! York!
When he had screamed the name Burgundy, he had almost not realised it – just a word in a nonsensical stream. But Glover had pounced eagerly on that one.
Burgundy? To his aunt, yes? The boy has gone to his aunt?
Hugh had been too broken to concoct a lie to cover the admission. Groaning, sweat pouring off him, he had watched through slitted eyes as Glover crossed the torture chamber and spoke quickly to another man who had slipped out through the door. Later that day they had taken him to Newgate, each rattle and bounce of the cart he was put in screaming through his body. He had been here ever since, down in the prison dungeons, referred to by the wardens as the less convenient places, chained to the wall like a dog and kept away from the other unfortunates, whose coughs and cries he could hear all around him. Hugh wasn’t sure if he was now merely waiting here for his execution, or if they were keeping him alive in case Burgundy was a lie and his ruined body might yet be cracked to reveal more truth. Either way, when the door to his tiny cell was opened, it was with
cold dread that Hugh watched the figure duck inside. The door was left open slightly, spilling torchlight over the bloodstained floor and up the slimy walls.
The figure, who wore a hooded cloak over luxurious silk robes, was holding a cloth pressed over his mouth and nose. Hugh caught a sickly waft of perfumed oil as the man crouched before him. It was only when the man removed the cloth and pushed back his hood that he recognised the round, waxy face of Bishop Stillington.
‘Good Lord,’ murmured the bishop as he stared at Hugh, returning the perfumed cloth to his nose.
‘Have you come to free me, your grace?’ Hugh asked, his voice as dry as sand. When the bishop didn’t answer, Hugh’s scarred face split in a crooked smile. ‘No. Course not. You have come to see if I’ve given you up.’
Stillington glanced at the door, then removed the cloth again. ‘Have you?’
As Hugh shook his head he saw relief spread across the man’s face. ‘I gave no names.’ He swallowed thickly. ‘But they know where the boy was taken.’
‘Where is that? My lady said your men never made it to Lion Quay.’
‘Burgundy,’ Hugh told him. The word was bitter; tasted of shame and weakness. But perhaps if Stillington and Margaret Beaufort knew where Jack and Ned had taken Edward they could protect the prince from Richard’s wolves.
‘Good. That is good.’ Stillington paused. ‘You know I cannot get you out. It was a terrible risk for me even to come here.’
Hugh spat out a laugh, sending pain ricocheting around his body. ‘Look at me, your grace. I will never walk or ride again. Never wield a sword nor pleasure a woman. I am destroyed. I know only the gallows awaits me now.’
‘I could perhaps spare you that.’
Stillington spoke slowly, as if the idea had just occurred to him. But Hugh knew what the bishop had come here to do. He was too dangerous to be allowed to live any longer than he had. Stillington was just offering him the choice that he might remove the sin from himself. Hugh leaned his head against the greasy wall. ‘I will accept your mercy, your grace, on one condition.’
Stillington nodded warily.
‘I want a tankard of ale. Freshly brewed.’
Stillington smiled, showing small pointed teeth. ‘I am sure that can be arranged.’ He rose, looking down on him. ‘May God have mercy on your soul, Master Pyke.’
Turning, he ducked back through the door. Outside, Hugh heard the low murmur of two voices and the clink of coins. He closed his eyes, imagining the cool, bittersweet ale flooding his raw throat. One more cup to drinkhail to his comrades before a guard slipped a blade between his ribs and he joined them in heaven’s halls.
Jack was woken by the sound of the door creaking open. He sat up, one hand reaching for the bag by his side, the other for his father’s sword, which the guards had agreed to return to him two days ago.
It was the duchess’s steward, Thierry. The man looked as though he had just been stirred from sleep himself, his hair unkempt. By the dimness of the light coming through the small room’s slit window Jack could tell it was early.
‘Come, quickly,’ said Thierry, beckoning to him. ‘Bring your things.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Jack asked, pulling on the jacket one of the servants had brought for him, along with new hose and a shirt.
‘No time to talk, just come.’
Fully awake now, Jack strapped his sword around his waist and slung his bag, the broken strap mended with a knot, over his shoulder. Swinging his cloak around him, he followed the man out of the room and through the palace’s warren of passages.
The place was quiet, the sky through the windows milky grey with dawn. Just a few souls were up about their business, servants beginning their chores, cats slinking their way to find somewhere warm after a night’s hunting. Jack, mostly confined to his room for the past few days, hadn’t seen much of the building. Although he was glad to be out of his cramped lodgings, his apprehension at the unexpected awakening was mounting.
Thierry led the way out into a small courtyard at the back. Emerging in the still morning, his breath fogging the frigid air, Jack saw three horses being led from the stables. Each was saddled, large packs strapped to their sides. There were four figures waiting there. One, who was adjusting the stirrups and tightening buckles on the packs, he took for a groom. One was an older man, well-dressed, with a broadsword at his hip. With them were the duchess and Prince Edward, who was wrapped in a thick cloak for travelling. Margaret had her hand on the boy’s shoulder and was talking quickly. Her face was taut with concern. She looked round as Jack approached.
‘My lady?’
‘Men have come, from England, Master Wynter. They believe Edward is here. They have an order from my brother for his immediate return.’
Jack thought of Ned and the others. Had they been caught? Had they given them up?
‘I suspect they planned the early hour to surprise us,’ continued Margaret. ‘But it gives us an advantage. I can make them wait before they see me. It will give you a chance to get away.’
Jack looked from the duchess to the horses. ‘Get away where, my lady?’
‘I have a hunting lodge, down near Dijon. Mary and I used to spend summers there. It hasn’t been used since . . .’ She took a breath and motioned to the well-dressed man. ‘Michel will take you.’
‘What about King Richard?’
‘I was wrong to say what I said when you first came to me,’ said the duchess, glancing down at her nephew, her blue eyes softening. ‘Richard is not my only kin.’ She looked back at Jack. ‘I will tell my brother’s men my nephew isn’t here and that I do not know his whereabouts. They can search the palace to see the truth of that. I want to know more about my brother’s intentions before I make a decision. I may be able to convince Richard to grant me custody of both boys, but that will take time. For now, you must leave that I may deny his presence.’
‘How long should we stay in hiding?’
‘Until I send word that it is safe for you to return.’ Margaret stepped back, motioning to Michel. ‘Quickly now.’ Kissing Edward’s cheeks, she ushered him to the horse that had been prepared for him. ‘God speed.’
While the groom laced his hands for Edward to mount, Jack and Michel swung up into their saddles. Hooves muffled by the straw that littered the courtyard, the three of them urged the horses towards a gate in the wall. After stealing a look beyond, the groom opened it wide for them. Jack looked back to see the duchess raise her hand. Then, then the gate was closed behind them and they were riding out into the grey dawn.
The cart trundled along the track, wheels skidding in the frost-mottled mud. Ahead, green fields, some still swampy from October’s storms, rolled to the edge of the land, before tumbling steeply down tall white cliffs. Beyond, the sea sparkled silver in the early morning sun. Amaury de la Croix shielded his eyes as he looked out across the stretch of water. By tonight, God willing, he would be on the other side.
As the cart bounced over a rock in the road, Amelot shifted beside him. Amaury looked down at her pale face and brushed her fringe from her eyes. Her hair had grown long these past months. He knew, when she saw it, she would want it cut. A girl dressing as a boy flew in the face of canon law, but, still, he would hand her the knife and hold the mirror as she hacked off the offending strands. Amelot would not be able to do some of the things she did for him dressed as a girl. Her boyhood suited them both.
Her fever had subsided enough for him to move her from St Thomas’s Hospital, but she was still terribly weak. The rumours of war still flying around the capital and the onset of winter had convinced him to risk the crossing to France. At least in the court he would have access to the best physicians and medicine. Besides, there seemed to be nothing in England for him now. His men were dead and the trail of the map was as cold as the Thames.
The evening he had left the hospital to retrace his steps to the tavern Amelot led him to – the evening he found the man who knew his secrets dying in the alley – he had searc
hed the tavern, but had found it empty. The dying man confessed that a son of Thomas Vaughan – a son Amaury had not known existed – had taken it from him. But even with the young man’s name, he had not been able to discover any word of him. He was left now with only the hope that Vaughan had not betrayed them and his son would protect the map. Despite his failure he had to leave. After the man’s confession he needed to get word to the Needle. The eye of Rome had turned to them once again and now the enemy knew their purpose. If the map was lost to them they must find another route to New Eden.
Chapter 30
The snow came to London early in the New Year, blanketing rooftops and smothering streets. Icicles hung from eaves and grew from the grinning stone beaks of gargoyles on the churches. The Thames froze in places, trapping ferries and fishing vessels in splintered sheets of ice, and people strapped skates made of sculpted horse bone to their shoes, shrieking as they skidded their way along the river.
For one perfect morning after the first fall the city was a frozen, beautiful landscape, where spires and towers became soaring mountains and all the grime and rubbish was hidden under a sparkling cover of white. Then, the streets turned to treacherous black slush, roofs began to leak under the weight of water and, by the time the king’s first parliament opened in late January, everyone was longing for it to melt.
The dukes and earls, barons and bishops who sat in the House of Lords arrived first, settling into comfortable lodgings in Westminster. After them, more keenly aware of the financial burdens of long parliaments, came the representatives of the House of Commons: the lesser gentry, knights of the shires and burgesses of the towns. The taverns of Heaven, Hell and Purgatory adjacent to Westminster Palace did a roaring trade, their walls witness to private meetings and deals, hushed talk and gossip.
