Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  Richard chewed on his lip, teeth nipping at skin already bitten raw. Money had flowed steadily from the treasury since his lavish progress and Buckingham’s rebellion had seen a fresh flood of gold poured out. Now, with his coffers almost dry, he had been forced to ask for loans from the nobility. It was a move that had been met with deep reluctance and many excuses.

  ‘Yet meanwhile, Tudor calls me an unnatural tyrant. A monster who has stolen the crown. It is not only my words that can be slung like mud, William.’ Richard shifted his weight as one of the attendants tied a skirt of mail around his waist, which would serve to protect his groin. The other moved to encase him in the breastplate, formed of two pieces buckled at the side then laced to his arming jacket with points of red waxed twine. Long like this, the points made him look as though he were decorated in dozens of ribbons. They would be snipped short before battle, making it harder for the enemy to cut them and loosen the armour. ‘It may not be too late to arrange the marriage of my niece. Without the hand of Elizabeth of York, Tudor’s claim to the throne would be as weak as watered wine.’

  As vambraces were slid on to each of the king’s arms and the pauldron placed over his shoulders, the armourer moved around him, pulling at the straps. ‘How does this feel, my lord? Good, yes?’

  Richard nodded, rolling his arms and watching the way the plates flexed and moved with his body. It was the lightest armour he had ever worn and he knew he would easily be able to mount his horse unaided and move freely on the battlefield. The issue, as always, was heat. Already, he was sweating profusely. When the helm was on it would feel as though he were being suffocated. ‘Fits like a glove, does it not?’ Glancing at Catesby as he asked the question, Richard saw the man’s eyes had narrowed in concern. At once, he knew why. ‘I don’t mean myself, William,’ he said, his tone sour. ‘Another suitor.’

  Elizabeth of York had been a source of contention between them these past few months. After Anne’s death rumours had been spread far and wide, people saying he had poisoned his wife and planned to marry Elizabeth of York. The latter had been true. Having lost hope of snaring Tudor with the aid of Pierre Landais and deeply troubled by his rise in the court of King Charles, Richard had sought about for ways to weaken his enemy. Elizabeth Woodville and her daughters might be under his control now, but what if Tudor somehow turned the queen-dowager back to her old agreement?

  He had told his counsellors his intention to marry his niece was born purely of political need, but the idea, seeded when she had first entered his custody, had come to torment him; thoughts of the young golden-haired woman lingering in dark recesses of his mind where desire, unwelcome yet undeniable, had flared. Alone, he had done penance for such thoughts, disgusted by the cravings of his own flesh, so soon after the death of his wife; adamant he would not become the lecherous toad his brother had been. But his true penance had been forced in the public arena, when outrage demanded he openly refute such rumours. Catesby, Ratcliffe and Lovell had each insisted, as strongly as they dared, that he must do so. The incident had been smoothed over, Richard having since entered negotiations for his possible marriage to the sister of the King of Portugal. But secretly he wondered. Had he done the right thing?

  Looking at Catesby now, standing before him in his fur-trimmed silk robes, adorned with a gold collar and belt encrusted with sapphires and mother-of-pearl, he questioned whether the man truly believed such a union would be anathema, or whether he was more concerned about his own status. The young lawyer had come far from his days as a follower of Lord William Hastings – had climbed, with Richard’s aid, to the very heights of the realm. No doubt he would fear a new dawn of Woodville power in which he would most likely lose his coveted place.

  Richard pushed the thought aside. Doubts about his ministers and qualms over his own decisions were not luxuries he could afford. Even thoughts of Prince Edward, still missing without trace, had been forced from his mind. The only thing he could concern himself with was the devil across the Channel. He had sent Sir James Tyrell to Burgundy to seek support against the unified front of King Charles and Henry Tudor. Despite the suspicions that lingered around his sister, Margaret, and her possible role in their nephew’s disappearance, he sought the strength of her stepson-in-law, the powerful Maximilian, son of the Holy Roman Emperor, who had recently wrested control of Flanders from his enemies. But, so far, he had heard nothing from Tyrell.

  ‘If you will, my lord.’

  Richard bent his head forward as the armourer held out the helm. The sallet, lined with cloth stuffed with wool, slid snugly on to his head and was buckled with a chin strap.

  He stood there before the mirror, adorned for war, sweat stinging his eyes inside the tight encasement of the helm, his breaths muffled by the visor. A man of iron stared back at him, a man in a gleaming shell that could turn a sword. He might not have his brother’s height or his father’s physique, but he had commanded armies since he was seventeen. He was a son of York, of the House of Plantagenet. War was in his blood.

  Let Tudor come.

  Lady Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, stood in the yard of the manor watching her husband approach. The clatter of hooves on the hard track was loud in the evening, dust rising in yellow clouds around the dozen or so riders. She could see the lord at the head, flanked by his personal guards, their tunics quartered with the blue and white of his livery.

  It had been weeks since she had seen Thomas. Along with his brother, William, and his son, George, he had been kept away by the king. That afternoon, his steward had arrived to inform her of his coming; that Lord Stanley was returning home to raise the men of the north-west for war. Against her son.

  Margaret’s knees were sore and red from where she had spent so long on the cold chapel floor. She pressed her hands together now and closed her eyes at the thud of hooves. One last prayer.

  ‘My lady?’ called Thomas, dismounting in the yard and handing his reins to one of his squires. He came to greet her, away from his men, surprise clear in his eyes at the welcome.

  Margaret could see the tiredness etched in his lined face, the new creases of worry and knots of doubt, the fresh streaks of grey in his hair. The past year had not been kind to either of them. ‘My lord, I have never asked you for anything. I have never done you wrong, except in service to my own flesh and blood, in which, at least, I can say I showed a mother’s loyalty.’

  Thomas frowned, shaking his head. ‘What is this, my lady?’

  ‘I beg you, do not fight for Richard.’ She took his gloved hands in hers, still warm from the reins. ‘My son is coming home. Raise your men for him, my lord. Your strength could make him a king. You need not live under Richard’s thumb any longer. Under Henry we would both be free.’

  ‘I cannot, my lady.’ Thomas’s voice was hard. He withdrew his hands from hers.

  Margaret let out an anguished cry and fell to her knees in the dust and horse dung, her hands clasped together. ‘He is my son, Thomas! My blood! My boy!’

  ‘And George is mine,’ said her husband, grasping her shoulders and raising her up. ‘The king has him in his custody, Margaret. Richard has taken my son as a hostage. Do you understand?’ He lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to look at him. ‘He doesn’t trust me.’

  Chapter 38

  The sky over Paris was an ugly green, clotted with clouds, the air close and still. People rushed through the streets of the Île de la Cité, hurrying to get to shelter before the rain came. In their preoccupied haste few noticed the ragged figure crouched in the doorway of a shuttered shop in the shadow of the towering spires of Notre-Dame, biting at a hunk of mouldy bread, hands bound in filthy bandages.

  Jack stuffed the bread into his mouth, barely pausing to swallow, every stale mouthful clogging his throat until he managed to choke it down. He had found the loaf wedged in a midden heap outside a baker’s in the streets near the palace. Each time he brought his hands to his face to tear off another dry hunk he smelled the foetid sweetness of
decay. He was uncertain whether it was the bread or his own flesh. Beneath the soiled, pus-yellow strips of linen, the cuts and burns on his hands were festering.

  His sore skin remembered the pain of the knife jabbing at him, cutting him as he stabbed frantically at the ropes around his wrists, strained muscles screaming, smoke filling his lungs and searing his eyes. He remembered choking, dropping the food knife from his bloodied fingers, twisting on the floor to find it again. Starting over. He remembered the rising panic every time he missed and cut skin instead; the thought that he would die like his mother had, burned up in her home. Die at the hands of his own flesh and blood. The roaring flames. The terrible heat. Then – the snap of the frayed rope, tearing himself free, grabbing the knife to saw at the bonds around his ankles.

  He had crawled his way out of the fire, out into the blessed summer night, retching and gasping, hands beating at his smouldering clothes, the stink of burned hair in his nostrils. Not yet feeling the pain that would soon become a constant companion. After staggering to the stables to find the horses gone he had collapsed in the cool grass, while the lodge burned, lighting up the night and sending clouds of sparks shooting into the sky above the forest clearing.

  At dawn, with smoke still spewing from the charred remains, he had begun his journey north, trudging endless miles through unfamiliar landscape, fording rivers, navigating woods, trekking through green-gold seas of grass and corn, skirting hamlets and towns. At first he lived on raw venison and dry oats taken from the lodge’s outhouse and stables. When these ran out he foraged for food or stole it when he could, sometimes going hungry for days, forced to eat grass and drink stream water. The summer sun beat down on his head, darkening his skin to the colour it had been in Seville.

  The blisters on his burned hands were soon joined in their weeping by those on his feet, his shoes worn as thin as parchment. He had torn strips from his filthy, fire-scorched clothes and bound them as best he could. He had no money for medicine. All he owned were his father’s sword, which had been hanging in the outhouse where he and Edward unmade their kills, and the caduceus ring. He had found the gold band in the smoking wreckage of the lodge, caught in a blackened fragment of the bag Harry had taken the map from. No longer able to push it on to his finger, he had tied it around his neck on a loop of knotted threads from his shirt. However desperate he became, he had refused to part with either blade or band.

  For a time, he wasn’t certain where he was going, his only thought to head north. The last he’d heard from Michel, Henry Tudor had escaped Brittany and was in France, under the protection of the king. He had no idea if that was still the case. All he knew for certain was that his brother was in league with Tudor and that, wherever Tudor was, Harry Vaughan would surely not be far. That single thought was what kept him going, forcing one blistered foot in front of the other, his skin shrinking on his bones. All those months in the lodge, away from the world, the wound of his mother’s death had slowly begun to heal over, leaving a tender scar. The revelation that Harry, his own brother, had sent those killers to her house had ripped that scar open.

  Following rumours and roads that grew wider and busier, he had come at last to the heart of France. To Paris. Most people had recoiled in fear or disgust when he approached them, but several days ago in the streets around the palace he found someone willing to pause long enough to tell him the English had left the city over a month earlier, heading for the coast where they were said to be preparing a fleet. Jack knew he had to follow. But the coast, a hundred or more miles, seemed the other end of the earth.

  The rain began to fall in great droplets, hammering in the dust of the narrow street. The people hurrying past lifted their hoods and ran for shelter. None looked at him, slumped in the doorway. Jack leaned his head against the door of the shop, felt his stomach clench around the stale bread as he listened to the drumming rain. Exhaustion found him, wrapping numb arms around him. His head filled up with strange visions until he no longer knew whether he was sleeping or waking. Dreaming or remembering.

  He saw his father standing before him, passing him the scroll case, his tone grave. As Jack reached out to take it, the rolled vellum became a snake in his hand, curling around his arm, hissing as it struck his face. He jolted violently, trying to shake the image away. It was replaced by one of his brother wreathed in fire, eyes blazing. Then his mother, screaming in silence, while a man in a white mask held her in the flames. Beyond, blurred by smoke, two boys stood together, holding hands. On the floor at their feet was a circle of gold. A ring or a crown? The fire crackled into nothing and Jack found himself alone on London Bridge before two rotting heads. The mouths of Ned and Hugh were moving, full of maggots, warning him of the death that was coming.

  Jack stirred some time later, jarred awake by the cacophony of the bells of Notre-Dame. He didn’t know how long he had slept – if sleep was what it was – but there were slashes of blue in the sky, like rips in the clouds. The rain had stopped, but water was still gushing through gutters and dripping from eaves. Somewhere a dog was barking. The bells continued to clang, filling Jack’s head and reverberating through his body. The thunder of God. Across the street people were filing towards the cathedral. They moved like a great stream, flowing in through the doors – all except for one large, hooded figure, standing stock-still, as though he were a rock in their tide. Jack realised the rock was staring straight at him. He felt his heart beat faster at the unexpected attention. His vision swam and he couldn’t focus. Had death finally noticed him? Was the reaper coming?

  The figure started forward, coming at a run. Jack pressed himself against the door with a shout, holding up his bandaged hands to defend himself. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. He thought he heard death call his name, then exhaustion was pushing him down again, smothering him. All he could do was give in.

  He came slowly back to life to find himself lying on warm blankets. A beamed ceiling slanted above him. Jack raised a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes and saw his wounds had been freshly bandaged. He could smell something sweet. Herbs or flowers. He moved his head and saw dusty floorboards sliced with sunlight that streamed through a shuttered window. From beyond, came the flutter and coo of birds. What strange visions had accompanied this long sleep. He had dreamed he was a baby in his mother’s arms, her hands moving lightly on him, spooning things into his mouth, rubbing oil into his sore skin, all in velvet-deep silence. But, no – not his mother. A slim, short-haired youth. Edward?

  He sat up groggily, his whole body aching. His chest was bare, but someone had dressed him in a pair of white linen braies. There was a cup of something on the floor beside him. His throat was parched. Reaching for it, he drew it to his mouth thinking it was wine. As the liquid passed his lips Jack choked and spat it out. It was bitter, watery.

  ‘Drink. It will help you to heal.’

  Jack started at the voice. There was a figure in the shadows at the far end of the narrow room, seated at a sloping writing desk. The figure rose unsteadily, grasping hold of a gnarled stick. As he hobbled towards him into the light, Jack realised it was an old priest with iron-grey hair around his tonsure and pale blue eyes set deep in a lined and weathered face. When the priest gestured for him to drink from the cup, Jack saw his left hand was missing. The wrist ended abruptly in a scarred stump.

  ‘Who are you? Where am I?’

  ‘My name is Amaury de la Croix and you are in my home.’ The priest spoke English, but his accent was French.

  None of this made sense to Jack. How had he come to be here? What had happened to him? He tried to stand, but didn’t have the strength. Where was his sword?

  The priest motioned him back down. ‘Amelot!’ he called sharply, turning to the chamber’s door. ‘Bring him in.’ This was said in French.

  After a moment, two figures entered the room. One was the slim youth from Jack’s dream that he now realised was a memory. The other, forced to duck beneath the lintel, was a great bear of a man with a broad ruddy face tha
t split in a wide grin as he saw Jack. Now he remembered, clarity breaking like the sun through the fog of his confusion. It wasn’t death that had come for him at the ringing of the bells of Notre-Dame. It was Ned Draper.

  Jack rose unsteadily to embrace his friend, feeling a surge of emotion. Through all the months with just a lost boy for company he hadn’t realised the depth of his loneliness.

  ‘Dear God, you’re thinner than a starved weasel!’ Ned stood back, allowing Jack to sink down on the bed. His smile faded quickly, his brow furrowing in question. ‘What the hell happened to you, Jack? Where have you been? Where is Prince Edward?’

  Jack’s eyes flicked past Ned to the priest, who was watching him intently.

  Ned saw the look. ‘You can speak in front of him.’ When Jack didn’t respond, he continued. ‘Father Amaury was a friend of Sir Thomas. What’s more, he probably saved our lives. When we failed to find you and Edward in Burgundy we came here to Paris. I went to see—’

  ‘We?’ Jack cut in. ‘You mean Hugh and the others?’ He looked to the door, half expecting them to enter.

  Ned’s face closed in. ‘Most of us.’ He went on, before Jack could question him further. ‘We came to join the army of Henry Tudor, like many of our countrymen. I had hoped, too, that he might have heard something of you. That perhaps you had made your way to his court, seeking the protection Lady Margaret Beaufort offered us. But when I was granted an audience with him, Tudor claimed to know nothing of Prince Edward. Neither did he care to know.’ Ned nodded at Jack’s frown. ‘I didn’t know it then, but he had already discovered the prince’s whereabouts and had sent men to bring him into his custody.’

  Jack thought of Harry’s response when he told him they were on the same side. That cold laugh. His chest tightened. But Ned was speaking again.