‘I still say we should stay here.’ King Richard knew the battle of Windsor was lost but was sorely determined to fight a rear-guard action. He was not above using Bucephalus to intimidate Sudbury’s mare and swerved the charger in.
Never a confident horseman, Chancellor Sudbury yanked the reins left steering his mare away from the King’s mount, a notorious biter and kicker. ‘You know remaining here is not an option, Majesty. Windsor is not defendable, and besides we have to get you back to London to safeguard your royal interests. The Tower is your power base.’
‘Do you honestly think London would openly revolt against the Crown?’
Chancellor Sudbury humoured the boy, in full sulk, because the Queen was in danger, but his patience was worn thin as parchment. ‘Rebels come in two types, Majesty: those who have nothing to lose; and those who have much to gain. Londoners are greedy.’
‘Londoners love their king and will remain loyal.’ King Richard had been christened “the Londoners’ King” after brokering peace between the city merchants and their hated “King John”, but this moniker was a falsehood. The city was a cesspit overrun with vermin of the worst kind. The council was corruption itself; the guilds were collectives of cut-throats and purse-snatchers; and the apprentices were to a man, in a word, ungovernable. Mayor Walworth had almost been indicted as a traitor for his part in the assassination of the Genoese Ambassador two years before. Loyal Londoners! His grandfather King Edward used to swear that if the Londoners weren’t the financiers of the wars in France he would have burned the city to the ground and begun again from scratch. In Southampton. Never were truer words spoken!
‘I do admire your faith in the citizenry of our fair capital, Majesty, and I am sure if you are in London, seen to be in London, they will be loyal subjects.’
King Richard was not pleased with Simon-Says’ sarcastic tone of voice. The King would not be told what to do – he was no captive Henry III to be bossed about by Simon de Montfort, the Simon-Says of the game. The King would not be patronised. The King would not be provoked. ‘We are three hundred souls, Simon-Says. How do you propose we get to London undetected? Are you going to wave your crozier like Merlin and make us invisible?’
Chancellor Sudbury sighed. ‘I have ordered the captain to lead us along byways not normally travelled by the Royal Household—’
‘Flitting from shadow to shadow!’
‘No one is expecting us to be in the shadows. That is the best safeguard we have.’
King Richard fixed Simon-Says with a dark look. ‘On your head be it.’
VII
Seventy leagues to Canterbury and back! On a scrawny old nag a year from meeting the tallow-man. The highest service to which a man may obtain is to preach the word of God: Wyclif may have been right, but John wasn’t used to riding and his inner thighs and crotch burned like liniment had been rubbed into them, hard.
It was mid-afternoon before he came galloping down the Pilgrim Road with fifty-odd riders at his back and to meet Wat.
‘So John, how did it go?’ Wat asked. ‘You find Sudbury?’
‘No,’ John replied. ‘He was not to be found in St Thomas’ Church. We were reliably informed by the sacristan at sword-point, he is at Windsor with the King.’
‘That’s a crying shame,’ Jack said, sat atop one wagon in the drover’s seat. He sniffed, rubbed a drip of snot from his nose. Must have picked up a touch of the hay fever while snoozing earlier. He’d picked a shady spot and lain himself down in the long grass for forty winks. An old soldier’s trick – get the head down while you can.
‘We did destroy the goodly archbishop’s quarters. Our chancellor has indeed been living a very rich life since he landed the job of running Mother Church and government.’
‘A crooked priest?’ Jack snorted. ‘No surprise there then.’
‘You’ll be glad to know – the whole city of Canterbury and the surrounds are fed up to the back teeth with corruption of the church and will march to meet us at our muster point for the push on the city – Blackheath.’
Wat nodded. ‘How many souls?’
John beamed with pride. ‘Could be seven thousand in all.’
Jack whistled, a mocking rising single note. ‘You’ll be glad to know we recruited a thousand pilgrims just sat waiting here for you – all this time.’
‘Some were outlaws,’ Wat said. A band of forty outlaws had rode in, all scars and big talk. Their leader Jacob – a huge, thuggish dark-skinned, black-haired Jew – said they were tired of hiding in the forest, lying in wait on the King’s highways, wanted a piece of the action. Wat had no objection, after all he was an outlaw who any freeman could lawfully strike down. He sent Jacob the Jew off to fetch more folk from the green woods, knowing fine rightly there would be hundreds of men, women and children in the wild places, forced to live outside the law, in constant fear of King’s Men.
‘Most were serfs or London labourers,’ Jack said. ‘They’ll all be about as much use as priests in a fight, but still—’
‘My letters are far more deadly than your arrows,’ John said. ‘The word of God flies faster and truer, mark my words.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘You’ll see how very useful God is in a fight soon enough, Jack.’
‘That fills me with confidence,’ Jack retorted, ‘given everyone swears God will be on their side before a battle … and then God seems to mysteriously desert one side.’
‘Ladies?’ It was obvious to Wat that Jack and John didn’t like each other in that way come spring one ram head-butts its nearest rival to rut a ewe. Time to play sheepdog, nip their heels. ‘That is enough.’
But Jack wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. ‘While you were off gallivanting John, we had a royal visitor.’
‘A royal?’ John clapped his palms together as if he was a child going to pray at bedtime. ‘Who?’
‘Only the King’s own mother,’ Jack said.
‘Good Lord! Where is she? You must take me to her.’
Jack shrugged. ‘She’s not here. Wat let her pass on.’
John felt the blood pulsing to his cheeks, a dark red fury rising from within. The Fair Maid of Kent was a harlot, a self-confessed bigamist, married to two lords at once – Thomas Holland, first Earl of Kent, and the Earl of Salisbury – before marrying again, to the Black Prince. If authority rested on Grace, this woman had none to offer. She had traded earthly beauty for political power like the Great Whore of Babylon, and should rightly pay for her treason against the community. ‘A prize hostage she would have made to force our terms.’
‘Even nobles do not take women hostage for ransom.’ Wat frowned deeply. ‘And we are loyal King’s Men. It follows that no harm must come to the King, or his mother, does it not?’
‘It does.’ John nodded. ‘Most loyal of you. Though I do feel I must point out that our loyalties should lie first with our one true leader – Christ, the King of the True Commons – only then to his earthly representative, the Boy King. That is a distinction of some note.’
‘Noted,’ Wat said.
‘My arse has fallen deep into the sleep of death with all this waiting around,’ Jack said. ‘Let’s get your army moving Wat.’
‘This is God’s army,’ John said. ‘God is in our bows. God is in our arrows. God is in our swords, shields, pikes. God is in our hearts. God is in our minds. God is in our souls. God will preserve us, and God will smite down our enemies.’
‘God better shake a leg then, hadn’t he?’ Jack said. ‘He’s got a whole lot of work to do!’
VIII
A sickle moon threshed at the stars high in the dew-clear night sky.
Sir Thomas rode ahead of the coach, eyes asquint, alert. They were nearing Gravesend, unless he was gravely mistaken. The moon was bright enough to see the road ahead, but the shadows were dark enough that they had a chance of hiding in them should he spy trouble … if there was space enough between the trees. He had taken the precaution of muffling
the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage, using some of his mother’s wardrobe – a measure she gave her grudging assent to only after they’d plundered all Lady Genevieve’s cache of belongings.
‘Do you hear that, my lord?’ asked Serjeant Fordham.
‘What?’ A damned Frenchie canon blast last year at Calais had burst Sir Thomas’ left ear and meant that he said ‘What?’ a lot, which annoyed his wife mightily.
‘Riders coming down the road, fast.’
Sir Thomas could hear nothing much over the shrill ringing he had in his ears all the time, but wait … There! Blazing trails of fire up ahead on the road. Torches! He scanned the trees either side for a gap wide enough to drive the carriage through. There were none. They had no weapons. Nothing to fight with but their wits, bare hands, and the horses. Out of easy options, he told the men: ‘Make ready! Form a wedge in front of the carriage.’
The royal escort formed up behind him, men and horses jostling in tight.
Concerned about the commotion, Princess Joan stuck her head out of the carriage window. ‘What is going on?’
‘Stay in the carriage, Mother!’ Sir Thomas would not yield this time, his honour was at stake, and he’d defend his mother to the death. As the riders came on, hurtling down the road towards them, torches snaking through the darkness, the clatter of hooves becoming a thunderous drumming even in his duff ear, he lowered his lance. His keen eyes picked out the banners of knights. Royal pennons. ‘Halt! In the name of the King, who goes there?’
‘We are the Poor Knights, men of Malta, sent by the King to find the Princess!’ cried Sir Robert, and led his knights right up to the royal escort, his torch held high in greeting.
‘Well met, Sir Robert,’ said Sir Thomas.
‘Where are your arms?’ Sir Robert asked.
Sir Thomas coughed. ‘We were, I am ashamed to say, disarmed by the villeins.’
‘God’s blood!’ Sir Robert said. ‘How fares her Majesty?’
‘I think I’m more shaken than she is,’ Sir Thomas answered.
Sir Robert was sweat-drenched, out of breath, and had earnestly ridden with all his heart to find the Princess. He was dizzy as a boy in love for the first time when he dismounted – the relief he felt at having succeeded in his quest was sheer as the white cliffs of Beachy Head – and had to shorten his stride on the way up to the carriage. He wrenched open the door. ‘Majesty?’
‘Sir Robert?’ Princess Joan said, taking his hand. ‘Thanks be to God.’
Sir Robert led her out of the carriage. The pale oval of her face caught the light of the moon; glimmering in the black pools of her eyes; whitening her smile – yes, she was smiling at him. She had never smiled at him this way, a flickering loveliness that made him feel noble. For all the world, noble.
Sir Thomas shook his head. His mother was weaving her magic again. The near-divine beauty God had bestowed on her was oftentimes a terrible spell to behold. Like Helen of Troy, it overpowered men, made them want to fight for her, die for her. The worst thing, the very worst thing, was that being her son was not to be exempted from desiring her, disgusting though that thought was.
IX
Wat tucked into a leg of lamb, sucking the tender meat off the thighbone, as much with his lips as his teeth. Cries came to him on the wind from Rochester, disembodied, ghostly, like the tendrils of morning mist rolling up on the hill to his vantage point in a fallow field. They put him on edge. He tossed the bare bone into the long meadow grass. Back to business!
Down below in the valley, all along the River Medway, the riverfront of the town was ablaze. It was all Sir John Newton’s property. At dawn Wat had given Jack the order to raid the arrow farm there for barrels of much-needed arrows, and fire the rest of the wharf to flush said lord out of his strong redoubt. The tactic had not backfired: the rich love their property and money the way the poor love their children.
Sir John Newton was known for his piety – he had been a crusader in Latvia and Lithuania, slaughtered many a pagan – but he was at heart a pragmatic man and decided to surrender the castle within the first hour of the siege. Walls twelve feet thick and he offered to give himself up – a heroic gesture in return for safe passage for his family and his men.
Jack had gladly agreed to take him and his family prisoner, and escorted them straight to Wat. ‘Meet brave Sir John Newton,’ Jack announced, mock herald. He had taken a perverse pleasure in making the noble lord ride arse-about-face, on a not-so-high horse, through the streets of the town and out across the fields.
The noble as Fool: Wat appreciated Jack’s sense of humour. ‘Well met, Sir John.’
‘Are you the captain here?’ Sir John asked, his voice weary, old, a sigh of resignation; his mind far from beaten, ever active, seeking the best settlement. Old men traded on their guile, tempered mettle, when they lost the pride and power of youth. The ways of the world are the ways of worldly old men.
Wat nodded. ‘I am Captain on this fine Monday morning.’
Sir John Newton regarded his enemy, subtly mind, not looking the man in the eye. The so-called captain had a serjeant’s bearing, a fierce face, but eyes that were softening. Compassion. Feeling for. A weakness to exploit? ‘Sir, do what you will with me, but honour the terms of our truce and let my family go?’
Wat cast his eye over the knight’s haughty old wife and teenaged daughter, wrapped in furs and silks, mounted on their fine riding horses. They showed little or no fear, seemed to belong to another world, a world of statues, these stony-faced noblewomen, and yet the girl was not much older than Sophia. ‘If I honour the terms, where do you want them sent?’
‘The Abbey of the Minoresses, if you please.’ Sir John wanted them far away from here, close to the Tower, the seat of royal power, where they might find safety, law and order in the presence of valiant, chivalrous knights in armour.
Wat shrugged. Using the nail of his little finger, he hooked a tendril of lamb out from his front teeth and chewed it away. ‘Sir John. Will you swear our oath of allegiance? I have a job in mind for you.’
Sir John saw through the whoreson’s words to their ultimate meaning. It was as he had feared, blackmail. ‘Please, Sir, do not hold my family hostage?’
Wat shook his head. He would never threaten the man’s family even if the threat to his own children was mounting. He had left Sophia in Harry and Nick’s charge two leagues west of the siege that never was, best he could do for now. ‘On my honour, Sir John, they are free to go. I want you to be our herald.’
Sir John nodded. This Captain did not know the meaning of honour. Under duress, which would invalidate and absolve a knight of the realm from all the oaths he might swear, he said: ‘Then I am your servant.’
‘Sir John!’ Jack whistled. ‘You’ll be our first knight – like fucking Sir Lancelot, but not. That’s it, Wat! We’ll call him, Sir Lancenot. How do you like that, Sir Lancenot?’
Sir John swallowed his pride. It stuck in his gullet like dry rye bread.
X
‘Take it away,’ King Richard told the page-turner.
The young body servant nodded, and with a twinge of regret, closed the copy of the Aberdeen Bestiary, to return it to the King’s chambers. He could read, but it was the pictures of all the beasts of creation that were so amazing: the lion, tiger, leopard, panther, hyena, he knew of; and the fabulous creatures he did not – the yale, leocrota, monoceros.
King Richard sat up in the bath, turned the hot tap from the cistern off himself, rubbed his hands together. Bath fingers. The skin of his palms and fingertips had gone all wrinkly from a half-hour’s soak, as if he had aged fifty years, become his grandfather, Edward III, the man who’d had this very bath plumbed in. The sheer luxury of it. He felt nicely steeped, should have been thoroughly relaxed if it were not for the anxieties that circled him like the servants of the body tending to his bath. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and slipped down under the water, where he was deaf and dumb and blind and senseless and could
not be reached by denizens of the Tower. He magically became a fabulous sea-pig, blew silver bubbles from his mouth, cavorted effortlessly through the element of water as if it was his own; hunting fish; hunting shells to bat playfully between his flippers. He wished he did not have to resurface to breathe, and did not till his lungs burned and convulsed in protest. He gasped in some raw steam, scraped the water from his flooded eyes with puffy human hands to behold a herald, standing over the bath …
‘The King’s Mother, Majesty.’
King Richard grabbed the sides of the bronze bath and dragged himself to his feet. ‘Attend me.’
The three servants of the body attended to him after he had stepped out of the bathtub, wrapping him in a green silk robe.
Princess Joan swept into her son’s chambers in the Wakefield Tower, arms open. ‘Richard, my little king.’
King Richard ran into her embrace. ‘Mother. I’m so glad you’re safe.’
‘And you, my son.’ Pecking like a broody hen, Princess Joan kissed her son’s soaking wet scalp and inhaled the warm scent of him, and the sourness of soap.
King Richard usually hated this kind of fussing but today he allowed it; her touch right here and now was an antidote to the poison of all that waiting for word of her. ‘Where did Sir Robert find you, Mother?’
‘Gravesend.’ Princess Joan laughed. The irony of that place-name was not lost on her. She was ashamed at how terribly afraid she had been in the whole ordeal; of hurt, of death, of not seeing Richard again; how all this countermanded her idée fixe to be with Edward. The Fair Maid had two faces like Janus: she was a hypocrite.
Bursting with gratitude for Sir Robert, King Richard broke from the hug. ‘Such a brave knight, Sir Robert!’
Princess Joan nodded. She had seen the King’s knight in a different light, the intolerable loveliness of the moon. It was a romantic moment straight out of a bard’s verse. ‘Sir Robert was gallant indeed. He saved us – myself and Thomas.’
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