8 Men from the North
Over the following days the tension in the city relaxed. Even the arrival of troops from the north was met with good humour rather than the Londoners’ usual suspicion.
Master Lyndsey had overheard Master Ashley speaking with friends who had witnessed their reception. And as ever I overheard Master Lyndsey discussing it with Master Hardyng the secretary as I laboured over a tally of numbers in a ledger.
‘The talk among the city folk was all of hordes of northerners being on their way,’ said the secretary. ‘Three or four thousand, they reckoned. And of what it meant. What the King might intend by summoning them.’
‘And afraid that London’s rights and freedoms might be threatened, I’ll be bound,’ scoffed Master Lyndsey. He was a man from the Midlands, who had travelled much with Master Ashley before settling down in the capital as his steward. ‘That’s always the way in this city. Ever worrying about its own affairs, never those of the kingdom at large, let alone the person of the King.’
‘Well, the people have a right to be concerned, here as anywhere else.’ Master Hardyng of course was a Londoner. ‘These have been difficult times – not knowing from one day to the next what will happen. Who will be in charge.’
‘Aye, perhaps. But Duke Richard knew who he could trust when things were uncertain. No doubt that’s why he summoned men from the north when he was protector. When he didn’t know what the Woodvilles meant to do, or how much support they would have.’
‘But now things are settled. Parliament has made him King. Why are they here?’
‘They’re still camped outside the city walls at the moment. Nothing to worry about. And Master Ashley’s guests say they’ll be dismissed back home once they’ve patrolled the streets during the coronation. You know how ruffians and vagabonds delight in thieving amongst crowds of people. But they also said how much the local people laughed and mocked at them.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because of their ancient gear. Tatty and worn, apparently. They said these northern troops weren’t fit to clean the boots of their own city guard.’
What Master Kendall had once told me about Londoners’ sense of their own superiority sprang into my mind and I was thankful that my brother Fred was not among the troops this time.
A day or two later I was running an errand for Master Ashley when the sound of many men and horses tramping resounded through the streets. People from all around hurried to discover what was afoot.
I followed, pushing my way to the front of the growing crowd lining Thames Street.
Trumpets blared, and on all sides cheers rose and kerchiefs were waved.
Behind the lines of scarlet-clad trumpeters, and at the head of marching columns of soldiers and horsemen, rode two men. One was a nobleman I did not know, atop a bay charger, a blue lion rearing on the yellow shield slung at his saddle. Beside him rode Duke Richard – or rather, King Richard. The sunshine glinted off the gold thread of the royal standard fluttering above.
Storm bore him on towards where I stood hemmed in by the cheering crowds. The stallion’s hooves stepped high across the cobbles, the crest of his neck curving proudly beneath his murrey and blue trappings.
My old master raised his hand in response to the acclamation, and smiled up at a baby held out at an upper-storey window, waving its pudgy little arms at him. But his eyes were shadowed with tiredness, dark lines etched beneath them as on the day he’d learnt of his brother’s death.
What he had said of the burdens of kingship flashed across my mind, and with it also the haunted face of his nephew Edward when he had spoken about becoming king so soon.
Before I gave thought to my action, I stepped forward and called, ‘Your Grace!’
One of his companions spurred his horse towards me, no doubt concerned at any threat such a sudden movement might pose. But somehow my cry reached the King’s ears above the tumult, and he recognized me despite my new livery.
‘Matthew?’
He reined Storm back and the whole column of troops behind came to a halt.
‘Hold your hand, Richard. It is Master Wansford, my late page.’
It was Master Ratcliffe who had driven his mount forward, and who now swung away to face the still cheering crowd.
Beyond him rank upon rank of soldiers stood to attention, alert to all around them. From their liveries and banners of yellow and blue, alongside men in the Yorkist colours of murrey and blue, I took the other nobleman to be the Earl of Northumberland who had led the troops down from the north. He was, I knew, little liked in my home city. He watched in curiosity as the King leaned towards me, resting his forearm on Storm’s crest, and spoke again.
‘Well, Matt, are you proud of your northern countrymen? They rallied promptly to my call in case aid was needed in these past weeks’ upheavals. You know of the great changes that have occurred? Though I hear Master Ashley has been in Flanders.’
‘Aye, Your Grace. We returned some days ago. I was with Alys and heard the friar’s sermon at the Cross.’
He gazed down at me, the expression on his face difficult to read.
‘Great changes, indeed,’ he repeated. ‘But Alys – she is still the late Queen’s ward, though she will remain part of the royal household until Elizabeth should decide to leave sanctuary. Then – then Elizabeth can do with her as she wishes. But in the meantime... I see you still wear my badge.’
I seized the fabric of my doublet where the silver boar was pinned and thrust it towards him as though in proof.
He nodded.
‘You may use it to enter the Abbey for the coronation – if your new master allows a holiday. It may be that you will see Alys there.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
Behind him, the Earl edged his mount forward as though in impatience.
‘Sire?’
As the King straightened up at his voice, the face of the boy king Edward swam before my eyes again.
Perhaps fearing to lose this one chance, I blurted out, without thinking,
‘And Edward, Your Grace? He who was to be —’
I stopped, knowing I was impertinent.
King Richard’s expression didn’t change.
‘You mean my brother’s son? He and his brother lodge still at the royal apartments in the Tower. They will be safe there until their mother comes to her senses and can take them again into her charge. I doubt he will be at the coronation. His change of circumstances will be hard enough for him to bear. Too often children must deal with the consequences of their parents’ mistakes. But he is young and will adapt.’
Master Ratcliffe turned his horse back towards us.
‘Your Grace. We are expected at Baynard’s Castle. The lady Cecily...’
‘You are right, Richard. We must not keep my mother waiting, though I am now King.’ His familiar wry smile. ‘God speed you on your life’s path, Matt. Offer prayers if you will for your new King and his Queen.’
‘I – I will, my lord,’ I stammered.
I stood back as he urged Storm into motion once again. With a barked word from their commander, the whole body of troops streamed after him, their vibrant banners whipping into life above the tide of leather and steel.
As Master Ratcliffe passed, he leant down and slipped something into my hand. Murmuring the words ‘From the King’s bounty’, he then kicked his horse on to follow the retreating backs of the King, the Earl and their companions.
I opened my hand.
A bright coin lay on my palm, crisp and new, a head with a crown adorning one side, a tiny boar stamped nearby.
It could have been the head of any king, such was the crudeness of the features. But the name ‘Edward’ was scribed around the edge.
I shoved the coin into the pouch at my belt. Then, though I should not have delayed my errand further, I watched the rest of the procession as it passed.
Among the hundreds of men marching beneath banners of Gloucester, Northumberland and York, I recognized her
e and there neighbours from my home town. I drew a grin or a nod if they spotted me.
One face, however, I did not expect.
In the last cohort of riders, resplendent in the murrey and blue of the King’s livery, I glimpsed my old adversary.
Hugh Soulsby.
I had not seen him since I had left Middleham. Since his revenge had led to my dismissal.
His eyes were fixed resolutely ahead as he was carried forward by the dark brown colt I remembered from the castle, his harness gleaming in the spring sunshine.
At first he did not see me. But then something – what was it? – made him glance to the side. And his eyes caught mine.
A moment, a hesitation.
Then he recognized me. His eyes narrowed. And his lips parted, mouthing words I could not hear above the tramp, tramp, tramp of the marching feet and clattering hooves.
But I guessed his meaning, as those lips curved into a smirk. Triumphant in his victory over me.
As always.
And then his hand stole towards the pommel of his knife.
Emotion rushed within me. Not hatred, perhaps, but raw resentment. That he, rather than I, should be serving the new King as his loyal supporter.
I pushed through the crowds to get away. Surprise showed on the faces of people around me. That surge in my chest must be reflected in a vicious twist to my features.
I hurried on, eager to leave those ugly thoughts behind me.
*
The day of the coronation was duly declared a holiday by Master Ashley, but though I hastened to the great Abbey at Westminster as soon as breakfast was over, I was too late to gain entry. Guards stood with their halberds crossed to keep back the crowds and only laughed at my attempt to pass on to the expanse of crimson carpet leading from Westminster Hall to the huge door of the Abbey’s west front.
‘I wish I had a groat for every one of those I’ve seen today,’ grumbled one as I showed my boar badge and tried to explain. ‘I’d be the richest man in London.’
‘The church is full to overflowing,’ said another. ‘Only nobles or churchmen allowed through now. Take your place out here with the other little people.’
I bristled at his last words, but I could do no more. So I stayed where I was, hoping no one taller would push in front. But when the proceedings began not long after, I had as good a view as anyone not within the buildings themselves.
First to emerge from the Hall, to the blast of trumpets and cries of heralds, was a procession of churchmen, clothed in the finest regalia. A tremendous gilt and jewelled crucifix the size of a man was carried aloft before them.
Next came a line of noblemen, sumptuously dressed, each bearing a symbol of kingship – swords, a mace, a sceptre, the golden crown itself. Among them were the Earl of Northumberland and, striding just behind, the King’s great friend, Lord Lovell, his features solemn.
A further fanfare burst forth.
And from the shadows of the tall doorway, flanked by several bishops and clad in purple velvet trimmed with ermine, stepped King Richard himself.
The crowds around me shouted and applauded and hurrahed as one.
But I found I had not the voice to join in. Now, only now, at last, I grasped the full truth of what had happened. The Duke – my Duke – had become King of all England and would today be confirmed such.
He walked forward beneath a richly embroidered canopy held high above his head on golden poles. His slow pace allowed all those present the time to behold him. Thunderous cheers crashed against the towering buildings, echoing about the square.
A few steps behind, bearing the hem of the train that cascaded from the King’s shoulders, paced the Duke of Buckingham, almost outshining his sovereign in a gown of blue stitched with gold cartwheels. Beyond him flowed a stream of other lords, the last carrying another gem-studded crown.
The Duchess came next. More than two months since I had bid farewell to her at Middleham, her face above her silver gown was no less pale than it had been then. Her train of cloth of gold was held by an older lady with pinched cheeks and eyes shrewd as a weasel.
And then, in the cluster of ladies following, I espied Alys, her reddish curls for once demurely caught up in a netted cap of silver thread dotted with seed pearls. She spotted me and the serious look upon her face fell away. But her joyous wave was shushed away by the more mature ladies around her. In moments she was swept on past me and into the Abbey’s cavernous depths.
Though I was not within the great church itself, the torrents of music and song that washed forth and what Master Ashley had told us of the ceremony meant all unfolded before my mind’s eye. The swelling song of the choir as the King and Queen entered St Edward’s shrine to take their seats of estate. The Latin service intoned before their approach to the high altar. Their anointing with the holy oil. The Mass celebrated in front of the enormous sword of state. The solemn oath sworn by all the nobles. The King kneeling as the Archbishop held the crown above his head...
I waited with the restless crowd on the cobbles of the Abbey precinct. Then a fanfare of trumpets blared, a deafening cheer went up within, the bells in the tower pealed, birds, startled from their perches on the roofs and stone sills of the ancient building, flew up into the glowing blue of the sky, and Duke Richard I knew now was King.
9 Rebellion
‘Well, boy, you’ve settled in here with your new master and no mistake.’
My father’s hand was heavy on my back as we strolled together around the garden of Master Ashley’s townhouse, aflame now with early autumn colour. Pride radiated from him and from his voice like warmth from the October sun.
‘The mayor asked after you when he heard I would be visiting. It’s been the talk of the council chamber, your having fallen on your feet again. First with the Duke – though I suppose I should say King – and now here. I trust you know how fortunate you have been.’
‘Yes, father.’
Did I sound convinced?
‘It’s not every boy who could be disgraced at the Minster one minute, and the next be apprenticed to one of the richest merchants in London.’
‘No, father.’
The memory of that disgrace – the choir master’s black eye and his anger at the riot I had caused – surfaced in my mind for the first time in many months, but I thrust it away. That was a different life, I was a different boy.
My father was on only his second ever trip to London in the course of his own merchant business. This was mostly in woollen and other cloths, but he also branched out into various luxuries, such as the books that Master Ashley had recently begun to print in the capital. The two men had met for the first time this morning and my father had been greeted as a welcome guest before they conducted a little business. I had waited outside my master’s study door, wondering if I had been forgotten, despite my father’s insistence in his letters that he was eager to see me in my new life.
The weight of his hand lifted from my shoulder as he paused to admire a cluster of blushing grapes hanging from a vine that clung to the sunniest wall of the garden. He plucked one of the smallest and popped it into his mouth, chewing once or twice before speaking again.
‘And of course we all had a glimpse of your old master last month. It’s been many years since York was honoured by a visit from a king, let alone one so newly crowned. I’m sure ours is the most loyal city on his progress around the kingdom.’
As I was constantly being reminded by town criers and household gossip and letters from Alys, only weeks after their coronation King Richard and his wife had set off on a regal tour around England. They had wended their way up to my home city by way of Oxford, Gloucester, Worcester, Warwick and other like towns, meeting the most important men of the kingdom and showing themselves to their people.
‘He cannot have been entertained half so royally anywhere else,’ continued my father. ‘And his entry was a far grander sight than any I’ve clapped eyes on – ten times the spectacle we laid on for him last spring w
hen he was still Duke. No doubt that’s why he chose to make his son Prince of Wales in the Minster.’
His hand, holding another grape, stopped halfway to his lips as he gazed down at me, his eyes quizzical.
‘How strange to think that the little lad was once your friend, Matt.’
Not ‘once’, I wanted to say as his hand carried on its way and the grape burst between his teeth in a shower of juice. Ed was still my friend, though he was so far distant. He had told me all about his special day at York in a letter I had received only a week or two before, decorated as always with his tiny drawings. He had not given up on our friendship, even if my father had, for all that he was now a prince.
‘It was certainly a sight to behold, his investiture,’ said my father, walking on again between trees laden with fruit and leaves of brilliant red and gold. ‘More splendid than the coronation itself, some say. And the gifts that were given to the King and Queen – dishes piled high with gold – and the feast afterwards at the Archbishop’s palace! Hundreds were seated there that night!’
Ed – too excited by the events to translate everything into our code – had written of his new gown of cloth of gold sent specially from London, and of the golden wreath with which he had been crowned by the Archbishop, and of walking back along the aisle of the Minster at the side of his mother and father, also wearing their crowns. And of the cheers and shouts of the gathered crowds as they showed their love and affection for their new King and Queen and their small prince.
Alys’s most recent letter, nestled in my pouch alongside Ed’s, had also likened the day to that of the coronation, but said that these celebrations had been more joyous. In York the King and Queen acted as though they were among friends, she wrote, not touched by the intrigues and gossip and rivalries of the court at Westminster. As the royal party had travelled further north from the capital, though he was always busy with work and petitions the King had at last relaxed. He had even laughed when councils of towns he visited tried to give him presents of money to help with his expenses. Alys said he always refused them, declaring he would rather have his people’s hearts than their money.
The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2) Page 8
