by Robyn Young
Margaret nodded. The rumour she had ordered Buckingham to start had spread more quickly than she could have imagined. She sipped her wine, glad she seemed to have been spared answering Morton’s initial question. She wasn’t sure how much of her plan to divulge, even to him. In silence lies power; do not reveal your heart until you are certain of the outcome. Another lesson from her mother. ‘As far as I know both boys are still alive. In the chaos after the rebellion, before I knew my nephew had informed against me at his execution, I met Robert Stillington. He told me the younger boy remains in the Tower, but that his brother escaped. According to the confession of one of the men Lady Elizabeth recruited for the task, Prince Edward was taken to his aunt’s court in Mechelen.’
‘Does the king know of your part in all this?’
‘I do not believe so. My nephew did not know the details and I know Stillington will say nothing – he is too afraid for his own neck.’
The flames now roaring in the hearth buffeted them with heat. Morton set down his goblet and held his long fingers out towards the fire, massaging life back into them. ‘What do you need me to do, my lady?’ The question was light, but they both knew the weight behind it.
Margaret felt some of the tension, trapped in her body, ease. She could trust Morton, as she had believed. He would do whatever she asked. ‘You have seen first-hand how men have been galvanised by their belief King Richard murdered his nephews. These men – many of them Yorkists – threw their full-throated support behind my son. If he had landed and Richard had been overthrown, Henry would have become king, lifted on the shoulders of former enemies. I had an agreement with Elizabeth Woodville for her eldest daughter’s hand. There would have been a union of the houses of York and Lancaster, your grace. An end to the wars that have riven our kingdom for so long. This hope could still be true. Except . . .’
‘For the boy,’ Morton finished for her.
‘Many of those with my son at Vannes are men of York. For them to follow a man of Lancaster against a common enemy is one thing. For them to follow him when they know a prince of their house yet lives? Well, that is quite another.’
‘And if I do find him, my lady?’
‘Take him to my son. He will know what to do.’ Margaret set her goblet on the table. ‘In the meantime, I will stay here and do what I can to make sure Lady Elizabeth holds fast to our agreement. Henry’s path to the throne depends upon it.’
Chapter 31
The eight men leaned against the wall of the North Star in the summer sunshine, supping their ale, eyes moving across Plymouth’s bustling harbour that overlooked the glassy green waters of Sutton Pool, sheltered by encircling arms of land.
The crews of two merchant galleys bringing wine from France were busy unloading their tuns with the aid of a crane, each barrel being rolled along the dock to a warehouse. Among them strolled customs officials, while fishermen shouted to one another as they dragged the morning’s haul on to the docks. Their wives sat in the sun nearby, mending nets. The air was filled with shrieking gulls and the smell of fish, salt fresh from the sea. One man was cooking mackerel over a fire, their silver skins blistering in the heat.
Harry Vaughan took another drink of his ale as he felt his stomach growl. It seemed a long time since he’d had a proper meal. Beneath his dirty cloak and tunic his stomach was shrunken. Once he had eaten spiced meat off silver plates, silk clothes on his body and sweet wine in his goblet, with a feather bed and pillows to retire to. He had dreamed of a golden future: competing in magnificent tournaments, winning prizes and ladies’ hearts, of a knighthood and a place at court, banquets and parties. Those things had been his birthright, the promise of his blood. But they had all been taken away from him. Now, he was battle-scarred and stinking, an outlaw with lice in his hair and aching hunger in his belly.
His companions looked much the same. Mark Turner, the man who had led them these past months, had a star-shaped scar in his forehead, where the spike of a mace had punctured his helm during a skirmish with the Duke of Norfolk’s forces in Kent. Rowland Good, the lawyer’s clerk from Hastings, was no longer a fresh-faced eager youth, but a wary, furtive man with a tic that constantly fluttered in his left eye. They had taken to calling him Twitch. The others, all of them sons of gentry, had their own wounds and afflictions.
After their loss in Kent, they had made a desperate flight to Southampton, crossing swollen rivers to join another rebel band, in whose company they were hounded deep into the west. They held out at Bodmin for a time, before the king’s forces scattered them. Hunted like dogs, they had hidden in the wilds of Cornwall, winter closing in around them, the hope of word of Henry Tudor or Buckingham dwindling, just as cold and hardship had grown.
It was in Cornwall, in late spring, that they met Tom West, a sailor whose galley had been plundered and sunk off the coast by Breton pirates, with a mere handful of survivors plucked from the sea by a passing fishing boat. Through Tom they learned that scores of men were making their way across the Channel, where they had found safe haven with Tudor in the court of Duke Francis. The crossing, however, was becoming dangerous. The narrow stretch of water had become the stage for increasingly savage acts of piracy between Brittany and England, and more recently King Richard had ordered a fleet under the command of Lord Scrope to patrol the seas and bring back any exiles to face justice. Letters of safe conduct were now required by all vessels.
Harry felt sweat prickle on his forehead, the sun dazzling off the water. He fought the urge to shrug off his heavy cloak, which was hiding his sword and dagger.
‘Eyes up,’ murmured Mark Turner, seeing Tom West approaching at a stroll, thumbs hooked in his belt, his face as brown and worn as old hide.
The men straightened, wiping ale scum from their lips.
‘There’s a light balinger,’ said Tom, as he joined them. His words were lengthened by his Cornish burr. ‘Down past the customs house. She’s perfect.’
‘Any crew?’ Turner asked him.
‘Two loading it now. Supplies not cargo by the looks of it.’ Tom paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
Harry caught the doubt in his eyes. So did Turner.
‘What is it?’ asked the squire.
Tom shrugged. ‘Struck me as strange is all. No cargo, no fishing gear. The men look to be of means, but have no servants.’
‘But she’s perfect you said,’ Rowland Good reminded the sailor.
‘Aye, in the sense she’s small enough for us to manage and she’ll hide well on the sea.’
‘Then we take her,’ said Turner firmly.
Instructing the others to follow separately, so as not to draw too much attention, Turner led the way across the busy harbour wall. As the rest went ahead, alone or in pairs, Harry paused by the man cooking mackerel over the fire. ‘How much?’
‘One farthing each,’ said the man, eyeing him uneasily.
Checking the others were out of sight, Harry delved into the purse inside his bag and pulled out a penny, the small silver disc nestled among the gold angels. He had been deeply reluctant to part with any of the coins – all he had left to his name – but he felt unable to withstand the hunger any longer and, besides, now there was perhaps new hope for his future, across Plymouth Sound, beyond the Channel. Long before he had raised his sword for Edward of York, his father had been an associate of the Lancastrian, Jasper Tudor. That could count for something, surely?
After the man handed him three farthings in return, Harry ate the mackerel hot off the fire, crunching through the bones and blowing out hot steam, while he swallowed the blistered chunks of fish as quickly as he could get them down, then sucking every bit of it off his dirty fingers. Covering his pouch with his cloak, Harry made his way along the harbour wall, the deep rumble of barrels being rolled from the merchant galleys loud in his ears.
Mark Turner and Tom had halted on the dock above a small boat, with one mast and room for three sets of oars. The rest of Turner’s band were lingering nearby, gazes on
the customs men, focused for the moment on the crew unloading the wine. A set of steps led down to the balinger, which was much closer to the water than the galleys. One man was crouched near the top of the steps, checking through a small pile of chests and barrels. Another was on the deck, stowing a bag beneath a bench at the prow. The boat rocked as he moved, sending ripples through the green waters. As Harry approached, he saw Tom slip past the man on the wall and wander down the steps. The sailor called to the man on the deck of the balinger, his voice mild, affable. The man looked up sharply, at once suspicious. He said something in response. Harry didn’t catch the words, but he heard the hostility in the man’s tone. The man’s companion rose from checking the chests and turned to face Turner, ordering him to get back.
Turner held up his hands and turned as if to leave, then whipped round, dagger glinting in his grip. He held the blade to the man’s stomach, his other hand grasping the collar of his jacket to hold him there, while he spoke, low and fierce. Tom, meanwhile, had leapt aboard the balinger and was grappling with the man on deck. As Turner marched his captive down the steps and the others followed, grabbing what they could of the chests and barrels, Harry quickened his pace. He was almost at the top of the steps, reaching for one of the discarded chests, when shouts rang out behind him.
Three men had emerged from the customs house. Seeing Harry bent over the pile, they raced towards him, drawing swords. Abandoning the chest, Harry sprinted down the uneven steps, crying a warning to his companions. Rowland Good was already untying the mooring rope. Mark Turner and Tom had forced the two men they’d taken hostage to their knees, while the others scrabbled on to the benches to take up the oars. As Good pushed the boat from the wall, Harry leapt the widening gap and landed on the deck, just as the three men came charging down the steps.
‘Halt!’ cried one. ‘Halt! Or you’ll hang!’
The men at the oars ignored the threat, pulling hard through the water while Tom directed them through the boats clustered in the harbour.
As the men raced to alert the customs officials, one of the hostages kneeling on the deck of the boat lunged to his feet and punched Mark Turner in the stomach. As Turner curled over in pain, the man tried to wrest his dagger from his hand. Harry pitched forward. Barrelling into the man with his shoulder, he sent him toppling overboard. He struck the water with a huge splash, leaving the boat rocking wildly. Harry was only saved from being thrown out himself by Rowland Good grabbing hold of his cloak. With a growl of fury, Turner hauled the other man to his feet. Head-butting him in the face, he shoved the man into the water. The shouts on the harbour wall had intensified and a bell was now ringing.
Turner and Good took up the other two oars, while Harry scrabbled to the prow, taking Tom’s place to shout directions while the sailor let down the sail. The breeze filled it, speeding them out through the harbour mouth, leaving the bell to toll behind them.
‘They’ll pursue us,’ Rowland warned, his eye twitching madly as he hauled on the oars.
‘We could make our way along the coast,’ Tom called. ‘Hide in one of the coves, then strike out after dark?’
‘Do it,’ said Turner, panting as he hauled on the oars.
As the boat dipped in the swell of open water, Harry felt something slide into the backs of his legs. It was the bag he had seen one of the men stashing earlier. It was made of good leather and had bronze buckles. While the others heaved on the oars, he opened it and looked inside. There was clothing, a skin of wine and a rolled piece of parchment. Disappointed not to have found coins, he opened the parchment.
‘Anything of value?’
Harry didn’t look up at Mark Turner’s sharp voice. His eyes remained focused on the seal on the bottom of the letter.
The forest was hushed in the treacle-thick heat of the late afternoon, just the piping of a bird and the distant trickle of a stream to disturb it. Jack leaned against the tree, the bark scratching his back. Flies buzzed around his face, drawn by the sweat and the mud he had daubed on his cheeks and hands that morning, now dried to a crust. His throat was parched and his feet stung from the miles spent scrabbling down into valleys, cool and green with shade, over rocks in shallow rivers, and up into high forests of bracken, oak and beech, dappled with light.
It was nothing like the hunts he had gone on with his father. There were no running hounds to track the scent, no men on horseback with horns to call the way, no hurdles to drive their quarry, no servants to bring wine and food. Just senses and stamina. The forest was vast, ancient and wild. Jack felt he could walk for weeks into it and never reach the other side. The first time he got lost out here he had been gone for two days and only by climbing trees and pinpointing landmarks had he found his way out. In winter he’d seen large tracks in the snow outside the lodge. Too big to be badger, wolf or boar, he guessed there might be bears in this wilderness. He was more careful now.
Slowly, Jack peered around the trunk. There it was, its fawn coat just visible between the mesh of leaves and bracken, long neck dipping to the grass to graze, then rising, alert for danger. It was a young fallow buck. When unmade and hung it would make them a feast for weeks. It had been a gruelling hunt, with many near misses, but Jack had refused to give up. They were almost out of supplies. They needed this.
Gripping the long, supple bow in his hands, the arrow nocked and ready, he slipped out from behind the tree. Moving carefully, feet cushioned by the mossy ground, he approached, using trees and bushes for cover. The buck raised its head, its body stiffening, perhaps scenting the threat. He froze. The animal, too, stayed where it was, statue still. Jack drew back the bowstring, took aim. All at once, the buck bolted. He plunged after it with a shout. Up ahead, an arrow flew out of the undergrowth, striking the creature as it passed. The deer didn’t stop. As Jack ran on in pursuit, there was a flurry of branches to his side, Edward racing to join him.
Together, following a trail of blood and broken branches, they tracked the deer to a shallow stream, where it lay slumped at the water’s edge, the arrow protruding from its ribcage. They approached slowly, still half expecting it to run. The creature’s eyes swivelled to watch them come, but it made no move.
Jack slung his bow over his back with an admiring shake of his head. ‘A perfect shot,’ he told Edward, unsheathing his dagger and handing the blade to the boy for the honour.
Edward took the knife in silence. He laid his hand softly on the buck’s velvet head. The animal snorted at his touch. Blood was oozing around the arrow, dark against the pale spots on its coat. ‘Sir Thomas said that when you kill an animal in the hunt you take on an aspect of the creature. Cunning for a wolf. Fierceness for a boar.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘Do you think that is true?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jack, although if his father had thought this he’d never said it to him.
These past months, trapped in isolation with the prince, he had come to know that there was much Thomas Vaughan had taught the boy that he hadn’t ever shared with him: astrology and philosophy, Latin and poetry, a deep respect for the writings of Plato, which bordered on adulation. It had been hard to swallow his sourness, knowing Edward had an experience of his father that was wholly unknown to him. The prince seemed to have been granted the life he had always hoped his father would offer him.
After finishing the buck with a swift cut and a prayer, Edward washed his hands in the stream, while Jack cut lengths from the frayed rope looped around his belt, which he used to bind the deer’s hind and front legs to a sturdy branch. Each taking up an end, they set off through the forest, the dead buck lolling between them.
Edward sang as they walked, his voice lifting high and pure through the quiet woods. ‘There were three ravens in a tree, they were black as black could be. One bird turned and asked his mate, where shall we our breakfast take?’
Jack joined in on the next verse of the ballad, which the prince had taught him. ‘Down in the long grass in yonder field, there lies a knight slain ’neath his shield. His hounds ar
e lying at his feet, right well do they their master keep.’
The day was fading into cool blue dusk by the time they reached the hunting lodge, trudging wearily through the undergrowth. Emerging into the clearing, Jack was the first to see the wagon. He ducked down at once, hissing for Edward to do the same. Letting the buck slump between them, he drew his bow from his back and nocked another arrow. ‘Stay here,’ he murmured, rising to a crouch and stealing quickly across the dew-damp grass.
Bats skimmed the air above him as Jack made his way up to the timber structure, past the paddock where they had penned two wild goats for milk and the stables where their horses were stalled. He smelled the tang of wood-smoke and realised someone had fed the fire he had left burning that morning. Whoever had come was now inside. Passing the wagon, which had a sturdy grey sumpter harnessed to it, Jack approached the door. As it opened before him, he raised the bow.
Michel held up his hands with a shout. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed, seeing it was Jack. ‘I thought you were a feral, come from the woods.’
Jack let his own breath out and lowered the bow. When he had first led them to this place at the duchess’s bidding, Michel had spoken of men who had gone into the forest, never to be seen again; men who, in all the years of solitude, had turned as wild as the woods themselves. Sometimes at night, when the deep silence seemed to pound in his ears, Jack imagined them out there in the darkness, phantoms in the shadows of the trees. He had wondered – if he stayed here long enough – would he become one of them? Would his memories of Grace and Ned and Hugh become nothing more than old ruins in his mind, things long forgotten, tangled over and buried?
Turning, he called to Edward, letting him know it was safe. The boy emerged from the trees, dragging the buck.
‘It has been a while since we’ve seen you,’ Jack said, following Michel to the wagon. ‘What word from Mechelen?’
‘My lady regrets the lateness of the delivery,’ said Michel, handing him a box of candles and a coil of rope, then hauling out a sack of grain that he hefted on to his shoulder. ‘The matter of the custody of her grandchildren has been occupying much of her time. The King of France has been flexing his young muscles.’
