by Robyn Young
Ned set the wine on the floor, pushing Titan’s nose away as he poured it into four goblets.
Adam took one and lifted it to the others. ‘Enjoy it, lads. We’ll not get much more on our pennies and farthings.’ He took a sip then grimaced and sniffed at the wine.
‘When did you say we leave for Rouen?’ asked David, turning from the window, where he was looking out, his scruffy hair and beard haloed by late evening sunlight. He crossed the bare boards and crouched to pick up his cup.
‘End of the week,’ answered Ned curtly. Sitting heavily on one of the beds, he drank deep, his mind on the conversation in the palace chamber.
Valentine Holt reached for his wine and sat back against the wall on the opposite pallet. He watched Ned over the rim of the cup, eyes black like the powder ingrained in his cheeks. ‘You’re troubled.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Ned met his gaze. ‘As I said, Tudor and his men didn’t seem willing to accept that the prince may yet live.’
‘What did you expect?’ Holt responded. ‘Them celebrating? Tudor built his army on the pledge he’d take the throne from Richard. If Edward turned up alive that army would crumble. So too his hope for a crown.’
‘Then wouldn’t he want custody of the boy? Or at least to find out where he might be? Shouldn’t he have been more interested in my claim?’
‘Would you want to be distracted by rumour at the eleventh hour of a war you have been planning for two years?’ David countered. He looked into his wine. ‘Does this taste sour?’
‘It’s whore’s piss,’ agreed his brother, before taking another draught.
‘Something just felt wrong is all,’ Ned said with a rough sigh.
‘You think he knows where the boy and Jack might be?’ ventured David.
‘Perhaps. Maybe he’s even protecting them?’ Ned shook his head, irritated by their doubtful expressions. ‘I don’t know.’
The four of them lapsed into silence, drinking their wine, each lost to his thoughts. Somewhere in the street below a man and a woman were arguing, their rapid stream of vehement French impossible to follow. Ned leaned his head against the wall, imagining their angry words as birds flapping up to the window. Flocks and flocks of them. Tiny little flapping bird words. The thought made him want to laugh. It burst out of him all of a sudden, startling Titan and the others.
‘What?’ asked Adam, his own mouth twitching as Ned collapsed sideways on the pallet, dropping his cup, the dregs of wine staining the blanket. Titan was barking at him, upset by the huge guffaws exploding from his master’s mouth.
‘Ned!’ snapped Valentine, sitting forward suddenly. The gunner looked down into his cup, then tossed it aside with a curse. ‘All of you, up! Now! We need salt water!’
‘Salt water?’ David went to stand, then a startled expression came over his face and he collapsed on all fours. He heaved, vomit rushing from him in a great brown stream.
Titan was still barking, but now the dog was at the door. Someone was out there. The creak of boots on floorboards. Valentine pushed himself to his feet, going for his arquebus. Before he could get to it he fell, crashing to his knees beside Adam, curled on the floor, hands held up over his face as if something were attacking him.
Ned, crying with laughter even with the fear and confusion that now gripped him, saw the door opening. Several hooded figures entered the room. He watched them come, stepping through the fallen cups of wine.
‘Got you!’
Jack realised the prince had made a mill; three white stones in a line across the carved grid. ‘So you have.’
Edward went to seize one of his black stones, then paused. ‘Are you even trying?’
Jack sat forward, pushing aside his bowl where the remains of the rabbit stew were congealing. He nodded, forcing away the fug he had been in all evening. ‘I am and I’m going to win. I’ll wager the mucking of the horse stalls on it.’
Edward grinned. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
Jack picked up one of his black merrill stones, rolling it between his fingers. He was moving it suspended above the makeshift board, teasing Edward with its placement, when the door burst open and five men stormed in.
The shock of other humans after so long in isolation hit Jack first. The second shock – that the men had weapons trained on them – came next. A punch of fear to his chest. Dropping the stone, he reached for his food knife, lying on the table.
‘We’ll shoot!’
Jack stayed his hand, eyeing the brute with the pockmarked face who had spoken. A crossbow was lifted in his hands, the barbed quarrel pointed at Edward’s head. He did as he was told, looking at the prince, silently willing him to do the same. His mind raced. His initial thought of forest bandits, swept aside by the sight of the swords and bows – weapons of soldiers – vanished altogether at the English the man spoke. Had their enemies found them? Had Margaret of Burgundy sacrificed them to her brother for the sake of her duchy?
Two of the men peeled off quickly, one heading into the stores adjacent to the kitchen, the other upstairs.
‘Who are you?’ Jack asked, keeping his voice steady, although his heart was hammering. ‘What do you want with us?’
‘Secure the boy,’ said one of the men. The youngest of the group by some years, he gestured with his sword towards Edward, but Jack realised his eyes didn’t once leave his.
There was a strange expression on the young man’s face, caught somewhere between triumph and hatred. Well-built, with dark wavy hair and a strong jaw, he looked oddly familiar, even though Jack felt certain he’d not met him before. His attention was snatched away as Edward cried out, one of the soldiers binding his wrists with rope.
‘Jack!’
‘Do as they say,’ he told the prince, his eyes flicking to the ceiling at the sounds of footsteps thumping across the boards and things being tossed about.
‘Now him,’ ordered the young man, nodding to Jack. ‘Hands and feet.’ His mouth crooked in a smile. ‘Like a hog.’
The man with the rope frowned. ‘He’ll not be able to ride.’
Jack caught an accent now. Welsh.
‘Do it,’ commanded the young man.
Jack stood stock-still as the soldier approached, the rope stretched in his hands. He could feel the heat of the fire against the backs of his legs. He held out his hands to accept the bonds. The man came forward, cautiously. All at once, Jack lunged, grabbing the soldier’s hair and yanking his head down. At the same time, he brought his knee up into the man’s face. There was a crack and a muffled shout. While the man was blinded by pain, Jack hauled him round, holding his body before him like a shield. ‘Let the boy go, or I’ll snap his neck!’
The soldier who remained lifted his crossbow at Jack, but didn’t shoot for fear of hitting his comrade.
The young man, however, seized Edward roughly and pressed his blade to the youth’s neck. ‘I’ll hurt him if I have to, Wynter.’
The sound of his name was another shock. It distracted Jack enough for his captive to elbow him sharply in the side and swing round, kicking his feet out from under him. Jack hit the flimsy makeshift table, which split apart beneath him with a splintering crack, sending merrill stones and bowls scattering across the bracken-strewn floor. The man kicked him viciously in the kidneys, then hunched down on top of him, his companion dropping his crossbow and racing to help.
Jack shouted in pain and rage as the men wrenched his arms behind his back for his wrists to be looped with rope. They then grasped his legs, binding his ankles together, before pulling his feet up behind him to be secured to his bound wrists. The one whose nose he had broken kicked him again for good measure, then backed away, cursing as he wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve. As Jack lay gasping amidst the wreckage of the table, he saw the soldier who had disappeared into the stores return.
The young man who seemed to be in charge passed Edward to him. ‘Take him to the horses.’
As the prince was escorted out of the lodge, he
twisted over his shoulder. ‘Jack!’
‘He doesn’t want to be king!’ Jack shouted, forcing the words out through the pain throbbing in his side. He was certain now that these must be King Richard’s men. ‘Let us go and I’ll take him away. You’ll never see him again. I swear it!’
The young man paid him no heed, turning as the soldier who had been searching the upper floor descended the stairs, his boots heavy on the treads. ‘Anything?’
‘Just some clothes. And this.’
Jack shifted to see that the soldier was holding up a leather bag with a broken strap. His stomach turned over.
‘A few coins for our trouble perhaps?’ observed the soldier with an expectant grin.
Taking the bag, the young man pulled out the prayer book, which he tossed carelessly aside. Then he withdrew a pouch that jingled as he threw it to the grinning soldier. Lastly, he found the crumpled letter and the scroll case. Jack closed his eyes.
The young man dropped the bag and read the letter. His expression changed, growing colder, harder. ‘Go. All of you. Make ready to leave.’
The soldier who was inspecting the pouch of coins frowned over at Jack. ‘What about him? Our orders were to bring them both back.’
‘Do it, Rhys,’ said the young man. He turned on the others when they hesitated. ‘I said go!’
The soldiers followed the command. When they had gone, the young man closed the door. Sheathing his sword, he stuffed the letter into his belt and turned his attention to the scroll case. Jack, his heart thudding wildly, watched as he unplugged the stopper and eased out the roll of vellum. The map opened wide in his hands.
The young man stared at it for a time, before rolling it back up and sliding it into its case. His gaze fell on Jack. ‘Tell me, did our father give this to you?’
Jack was too shocked to speak. All at once, the reason for the young man’s familiarity was stunningly clear. He remembered Ned sitting across from him in the tavern in Shoreditch. You look a lot like him. The young man was Harry Vaughan. His half-brother.
Harry didn’t wait for a response. ‘How could he have trusted you with this?’ His eyes were glacial. ‘I was his son! His true son!’
Jack found his voice. ‘Harry, you must know that King Richard killed our father. You cannot deliver the boy to him.’
‘I’m not here for that son of a bitch, you fool. I’m here for the new King of England.’
‘Tudor?’ Jack wondered if the rumours of war Michel had spoken of had since come to pass. Had the world changed so completely in his absence? ‘Then we are not enemies. I was working with his mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort. I helped rescue Edward on her behalf. We are on the same side!’
Harry’s mirthless laugh was ice through Jack’s heart.
‘And what business was it of yours to meddle in such affairs? You are not heir to my father’s legacy. You are no one! What sorcery did you and your lowborn mother work to trap him? Did you hope to steal his fortune? My inheritance?’
‘There was no sorcery. Our father loved my mother before he married yours.’ Jack stared at Harry’s flushed cheeks, the splinters of hate in his eyes. How was it possible that someone he had never met could despise him so much?
‘I saw you in that hovel you lived in – you and your mother, laughing, crowing, while he sat at your table. You took my father from me. You made him send me away to another man’s household so you could have him to yourself. Tell me! Tell me you did this!’
Jack saw other emotions breaking through Harry’s hatred now. Frustration. Anguish. Desperation. He recognised them all. The brother whom he thought had usurped his place at his father’s side, had, he realised, lived a life much like his own.
‘He sent me away too, Harry. There was only ever room for one son in our father’s life. Not you. Not me. Edward. My mother knew this, I think, for she never expected anything from him. She didn’t want his riches. Neither did I.’
‘No?’ Harry raised the scroll case in challenge. ‘Then what is this? Those men said my father had given you a map. That its value was beyond words.’
‘What men?’
‘Foreigners. They sought me out after my father was arrested. Asked if I knew where you lived. Paid me well to tell them.’
‘You told them?’ Jack’s voice was low. ‘You told them where I lived?’ The dawning realisation opened a dark gulf within him. Out of those depths his rage came roaring – a beast unleashed, taking him whole in its jaws. He bellowed, thrashing against his bonds. ‘They killed my mother, you son of a bitch!’
Harry stepped back, startled by his fury. But he recovered quickly. ‘You should never have involved yourself in the affairs of my father. You had no right. Her death is on you, not me.’
‘I’ll kill you, you God-damned whoreson! I’ll kill you!’
Harry stared at Jack as he twisted on the floor. His hand strayed towards his sheathed sword, curled around the hilt. He licked his lips uneasily. After a moment, he let go of the blade and crossed to the hearth, ignoring Jack’s shouts.
Grabbing an iron poker propped against the wall, he thrust it into the heart of the fire, spiking a flaming log. He withdrew it, holding it out in front of him, cheeks flushing with the heat. His gaze returned to Jack, who was panting now, eyes fixed on him. Slowly, Harry lowered the burning log to the edge of the table that had split apart. The old wood caught almost at once, fire leaping to bright life. He stepped back, as if surprised, then moved in again, more confident now, touching the flames to the other end.
Jack yelled, trying to jerk towards him, but Harry was moving quickly, setting the smouldering log to the thin wooden shutters until little flames sprang up. He did the same to those on the other side of the room.
‘Untie me! Fight me like a man, you coward!’
Stuffing the scroll case into his belt, Harry picked up handfuls of the dry bracken that covered the floor and scattered them on to the flames licking greedily along the edge of the broken table, feeding them so they grew. The fire he had started at the shutters was spreading, fanned by the summer breeze coming through them. The wattle and daub walls were blackening, smoke billowing.
Harry turned towards Jack, bound on the floor in a ring of fire. ‘My father’s legacy will continue in me. Henry Tudor has promised me that. Everything he owned will be mine, as it should have been.’ He drew the crumpled letter from his belt. His jaw tightened as he looked at the words, then back at Jack. ‘What are you but spilled seed?’
Harry tore up the letter and tossed the pieces into the blaze. He left the lodge, taking the map with him and leaving Jack’s cries of helpless rage to be joined by the loud crackle of flames.
Chapter 37
Richard stood before the mirror, naked save for a pair of red woollen hose and thick, cordwain shoes. He stretched out his arms for his attendants to put on the gambeson. The coat was lined with satin, which slipped over his skin like cool water. The two men, who had served him for many years, worked in silence, one lacing up the front of the garment, the other fastening it to the top of his hose at the hips, their fingers nimble with the familiar task.
When it was done and his back was covered – the twist in his spine that raised his shoulder now virtually unnoticeable beneath the padded jacket – one of the attendants opened the chamber door and invited the armourer back in to view the fitting and make any necessary adjustments. The full suit of plate, the latest offering from Nuremburg, was draped over an armour tree. Its polished iron surfaces, in places ridged, fluted or spiked to channel or blunt sword blows, caught the summer sunlight streaming through the windows and gleamed like quicksilver.
William Catesby entered with the armourer, summoned to discuss final preparations for a muster at Nottingham Castle, planned for midsummer’s eve. War, Richard knew, was now inevitable. Henry Tudor was coming, his French fleet sure to darken the horizon any day.
‘Have all the orders to array gone out?’
Catesby nodded as he stood before the king, watchin
g the armourer pluck pieces off the tree to give to the attendants. ‘They have, my lord. And your officers are making final counts of all able-bodied men.’
Richard lifted a foot for one of the long pointed sabatons to be fastened over his shoes, the articulated plates, all riveted together, sliding smoothly against one another with the movements. ‘Everyone is at their tasks?’
‘Norfolk is raising men in the east. Northumberland is overseeing the muster of the northern levies. Lord Stanley, as you know, is heading to his manor and from there will assemble the north-west. London is maintained by Robert Brackenbury. Huntingdon is watching the Marches of Wales in case the Tudors make for their old lands and Lovell is in Southampton for the preparation of the fleet. Each and every one is where he needs to be, my lord.’
Richard heard the measured patience in Catesby’s calm tones. They had been through these details already, several times, but he needed the reassurance the reminders gave him. These past months he had been forgetful, easily distracted. He had been torn in many directions, tormented by troubles in his realm and broken by grief for the death of his wife and queen. Not yet thirty summers, Anne Neville had been taken in spring by a sickness in her lungs that had ravaged her from the inside out, until she was coughing blood and every rattling breath was a war she was soon unable to fight. The bereavement, coming close after the loss of his son the year before, had laid Richard so low that some nights, lying awake in the pre-dawn stillness, he envied Anne’s passing; imagined crossing the veil in her wake, leaving behind all pain and suffering.
‘Here, my lord,’ said the armourer, moving in to bind thick lengths of cloth around Richard’s knees after the greaves had been fastened to his shins. ‘This should help with any soreness.’ The man stood back, watching carefully as the attendants buckled the poleyns and cuisses over the king’s knees and thighs.
‘What of the collection of loans? What progress there?’
Catesby hesitated at this. ‘We have agents working on calling in funds from certain places.’ He spoke carefully. ‘I believe we may exact more if we continue to tarnish Tudor’s reputation, reminding your subjects that this bastard is now in league with France, our enemy of old, who threatens Calais and strikes at our ships.’
