The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2)

by Alex Marchant

  ‘What ails you today? You’re as irritable as Murrey when she snapped at that wasp in the summer.’

  Poor Murrey had had a terrible time after the wasp had stung inside her mouth. She had pawed and pawed at her swollen cheek until it bled, and I had been forced to bind all four of her feet in cloth to stop her clawing her face to ribbons. I wished now that I could scratch in the same way the sore, raw spot left by Hugh’s words.

  I told Simon as briefly as I could what had passed the night before. He too was horrified and dismissed the rumours as lies and slanders that should never see the light of day. But I overheard him later telling the journeyman printer as we returned to work – and I regretted mentioning it to him at all.

  But, as Hugh had said, word got around – even without my help. By the time of Alys’s next letter, the rumours had reached even Middleham, where she and Roger had remained with Ed and the Queen when King Richard had ridden south at the first stirrings of the revolt. Her horror at them and scorn for those who could spread such lies dripped like caustic lime from her words as she told of how the rebellion was viewed from far away in the north.

  The Londoners are no fools. They clearly don’t believe the King could be so wicked if they have rallied to his defence as you say. And the same in all other parts of the kingdom. Very few people seem to be supporting the Duke of Buckingham, or this Tudor. But now I understand a conversation I overheard weeks ago between the Duchess of Norfolk and Lady Tyrell.

  She had switched to our code, as she always did when writing about gossip or anything that might be confidential.

  Qb eia ijwcb epmbpmz bpm jwga apwctl jm uwdml nzwu bpm Bwemz. Q bpwcopb qb eia bw abwx bpmu jmqvo i nwkca nwz zmjmttqwv, tqsm bpmg pidm jmmv – jcb uigjm qb eia ijwcb bpmqz ainmbg. Ivl eqbp bpm Lcsm wn Jcksqvopiu ia Kwvabijtm wn bpm Bwemz...*

  She had broken off, as though she could not bear to think any more on the subject, and had turned to telling of how the Queen was sick with worry and had had to be stopped from following the King.

  Master Fleete said King Richard had enough to worry about without her safety too. Best for her to remain in Middleham, in the midst of their most loyal subjects. Although Master Fleete himself immediately took horse with other men from the castle and rode to join the army.

  Real news of the course of the uprising was hard to come by over the following days. But in time came the word that we had all been waiting for.

  Master Ashley had been summoned again to attend the city council, and I was on an errand for Master de Vries to collect supplies from a shop in St Paul’s churchyard, when a gathering crowd attracted my attention. I joined its very fringes, clutching to me the various bundles and packages to keep them safe from cutpurses.

  A crier had mounted the steps of St Paul’s Cross and was holding aloft a proclamation. Damp stains were spreading on the pale paper in the heavy drizzle. The crisp golden days of early autumn had descended into a dreary, wet November.

  ‘God be praised,’ the crier bellowed, as the whispering and mutterings of the crowd died away. ‘Let us offer thanks to the Virgin for our deliverance. For the rebellion is over.’

  Cheers rose into the air as though pigeons taking flight, but many of the people hushed their neighbours, eager to hear more without hindrance. The crier obliged as the uproar settled back into expectant silence.

  ‘By the Grace of God and with the aid of his loyal subjects, our lord King Richard has defeated the rebels. No battle was needed. On the approach of the King and his army, men fled in terror before his righteous cause, deserting the great rebel and traitor the Duke of Buckingham and his allies in malice. The said Duke, like a base coward, in turn fled in disguise, but was captured and taken to Salisbury to be tried for treason. On Sunday last he was beheaded in the market square as a condemned traitor.’

  A shiver rippled through the crowd at these words, like a chill breeze lifting fallen leaves on a winter’s day. The crier waited for a moment before speaking again.

  ‘His Grace the King declares that no yeoman or commoner who took arms with the said rebels shall suffer his wrath. But all are urged to deliver up to his commissioners those well-born rebels and traitors still at large. By name these are: the bishops of Ely and Salisbury,’ a gasp rose from the gathering, ‘the Marquess of Dorset,’ knowing nods were exchanged between two men in front of me, ‘Sir John Fogge,’ the man embraced by the King on the day of his oath-taking, ‘Sir John Cheney, Sir William Stonor, Sir George Brown, Sir Giles Dawbeney...’

  The list continued – names unknown to me – of knights who had taken up arms against their King in Wales and the west country, and in counties south of the Thames. There a last stand had been made at Bodiam Castle in Kent – taken finally by the Duke of Norfolk. Along with the names were the sums of money to be paid as rewards for their capture – a thousand marks for the Marquess and bishops, five hundred for each knight.

  As I listened I wondered that such men could break their oath of loyalty to their King, that churchmen could involve themselves in such affairs (though I later learnt that one bishop was himself a Woodville, the other a close friend of Lady Stanley) – and how the Marquess had escaped from sanctuary at Westminster, where his mother, the old Queen, was still holed up. I marvelled less now at her decision to remain there.

  On finishing his litany, the crier rolled up the proclamation and stepped down from the cross. The crowd were left to chatter among themselves and potter away to their business.

  Over the days to come, more word arrived of events in the west country as the King travelled through Dorset and Devon to restore order there and reward men who had remained loyal. More executions were reported, but fewer by far than the names read out by the crier. Later I heard that some men had fled with the Marquess to Brittany, but still others had been pardoned – and often even allowed to keep their lands and wealth. Later still, even the Marquess himself was offered a pardon – but I get ahead of myself...

  Among other familiar names mentioned was that of Lady Stanley – and of her son, Henry Tudor. For once a rumour had had some truth in it. Around the time of Duke Henry’s execution, Tudor was sighted along the Dorset coast, then off Plymouth, in command of two ships crewed by men in the pay of the Duke of Brittany. On receiving the news of King Richard’s victory, he had turned tail and was presumed to have slunk back to his foreign lair.

  Alys’s next letter wrote of the disappointment of his mother, Lady Stanley, and how she had been at the heart of the rebellion – the centre of a web of intrigue between Buckingham, the bishops, Tudor and others of her Lancastrian family exiled on the continent.

  Nyrk r nzkty!* She showed her true colours during the coronation. Yet the King has chosen to be merciful to her. Her lands are to be confiscated – but just given to her husband, who stayed loyal despite her plotting. So it’s not much of a punishment. But as the Queen says, the King needs to keep such men as Lord Stanley happy – though she didn’t look too happy about it herself.

  Mind you, Lord Stanley and his brother William were not always loyal to King Edward, though they were later forgiven. Did you know? How difficult it must be to be King, when everyone is after power and wealth. Why can’t they all just live in peace and enjoy the quiet life and prosperity it brings?

  Hugh’s words about his uncle being Lord Stanley’s man nudged into my mind as I read the letter – and the story Roger had told me all those months ago in Middleham, about the execution of Hugh’s father for treason. And I too wondered at this endless desire for power – at any cost.

  Two or three weeks later, just at the start of Advent, news tore through the city that the King was to return from his progress back through the southern counties.

  Crowds flocked to see him as he was led into the city across the great bridge by an escort of mayor, aldermen and chief citizens, my new master among them. All clothed in rich robes of crimson and violet, they offered a splash of colour on this drear day. Above, against the pale blue winter sky, fluttered the royal
standard and the familiar banner of white boar upon its field of murrey and blue. The silver lion of the Duke of Norfolk shone alongside. Behind the high-stepping horses of the standard bearers rode the King, astride Storm as usual, and the older Duke, with Lord Lovell and Master Ratcliffe heading the host of gentlemen bringing up the rear.

  I had stolen away from my duties to snatch a glimpse of my old master, back in his capital city after an absence of more than four months. Unable to push my way through the throng, I had only a distant view. But even from so many yards away, the change since I had last seen him was unmistakable. He and the Duke laughed with one another, raised their hats to the cheers of the people, touched their breastplates over their hearts, bowed and waved to those who called to them from the overhanging house-fronts, and reached into their own purses to scatter coins to those at the front who begged for alms. Lord Lovell and their other gentlemen, though, were watchful, eyes scanning the crowd as though they feared there might still be trouble, even here in this loyal city.

  As I straggled behind the procession of soldiers who marched in their wake, the mayor reached the steps of St Magnus’s church and stood with his fellow councilmen awaiting their honoured guests. The King strode up to him, the Duke a step or two behind. They accepted bows, gifts and a speech of welcome, then embraced the mayor and several of his companions. Turning, the King spoke some words himself to the gathered multitude.

  Though too far away to catch his speech, my head soon rang with the roars of the people, rolling back to me in waves, until everywhere around me was awash with noise. As I thrust my hands to my ears to deaden the sound, King Richard threw up his arm in salute, and then was gone, swallowed up in the church by the following flow of purple and red of the principal men of London. Master Ashley told us later of the service of thanksgiving and immense feast laid on by the council to celebrate the King’s triumphal return.

  It was the start of a joyous run-up to the Christmas season, though, for me, one very different to that of the previous year, when I had been guest at the court of the old King. All the solemnities of religious services were interlaced with the customary feasting and gifts, but the highlight for me was the practice of ‘topsy-turvy’ on Twelfth Night.

  I had heard tell of it at the York Minster song school, but, living always at home and not as a boarder at the school, I had never been a part of it, or seen the Dean serve the choristers and canons at table, or any other of the customs involved. So to witness Master Ashley don rough clothes and place an apprentice cap upon his head, and Mistress Ashley tie a housewife’s apron about her oldest gown, and both carry trays of meat and drink to tables, and bow to us boys and journeymen as they served us and poured our ale – and even sing for us during the meal, poke the huge Yule log in the hearth and clear away the empty dishes – it was all remarkable to me. It was a tradition in such households across the city and beyond – although it never reached as far as my father’s house in York’s Stonegate.

  Ed enjoyed a memorable Christmas-tide too, though upset that his mother had travelled to London to join his father without him. In his many welcome letters, he also sorrowed over the loss of Alys who had headed south with the Queen, but he revelled in riding out each day with Roger and the other pages, despite the snow and warnings about his health. Once again, little snow fell in London – though in Middleham Ed said there were icicles as long as his arm hanging from the stable roof in celebration of Jesus’ birth.

  But one letter in particular almost bubbled over with his delight.

  But my big news – can you believe it? – I have a hound puppy of my very own! Roger says my father feels guilty that he was not with me at Christmas – again – so he decided I should have one. I don’t care what the reason is. Sir James Tyrell, the new master of the pages and squires, surprised me with her on Twelfth Night. It almost made up for my mother and father not being here.

  She’s beautiful, Matt – pure white like Florette and Shadow. I’ve called her ‘Belle’, because that means ‘beautiful’ in French. When we went out, I had to carry her in my doublet just like you did with Murrey, otherwise I would have lost her in all the snow! These past few days she’s snuggled up with me since I’ve been unwell – it’s nothing much, just a chill caught on one of our rides. (Fqq’v vgnn Oqvjgt!*)

  I’m sure I’ll be better soon and perhaps in the spring I’ll be able to travel to London – I can’t wait for Belle to meet Murrey. Or maybe you can come with my mother and father when they return here after Parliament is finished in the spring? Oh, why are you not still part of their household?

  But, despite Ed’s lament, I was no longer part of his family’s close circle, and must accept it, cheerfully if I could, no matter how much I missed the company of all my friends.

  Time passed. All was quiet in the realm. And so, 1483 – the tumultuous year of the three kings and the great rebellion – turned to 1484.

  12 The Visitor

  ‘Master Wansford, you are wanted in our master’s study.’

  One of the household servants stood before me in the print house.

  I paused, the roller in my hand slick with ink, poised to run it across the frame full of type. Simon glanced at me, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Me? Are you sure?’

  Bemused at the summons, I handed the roller to Simon and removed my heavy apron, folding it and placing it carefully on a nearby table.

  Master Ashley I knew to be away from London on business in East Anglia. Mistress Ashley, though kindly to all the apprentices, had little to do with us unless we were ill or otherwise out of sorts. Master Lyndsey? I searched my memory for any reason he could wish to see me and I could discover none. While perhaps not the perfect apprentice, I had committed no misdemeanours of late that would prompt the mistress to charge the steward to punish me.

  With Murrey as ever at my heels, I made my way through the entrance hall to the narrow door tucked away towards the rear. I knocked once, and the door was opened straight away by Mistress Ashley herself. One hand clutched a spray of spring flowers – sky-blue forget-me-knots, pink gillyflowers – and a small pair of iron shears, as though she had been interrupted in gathering her usual posies from her garden.

  An oddly familiar expression shadowed her eyes for an instant and her free hand stretched out to squeeze my shoulder.

  ‘Matthew, lad, come in, come in. Here is a friend come to see you.’

  She drew me into the room, where the fresh sunlight slanted in through diamond-paned windows overlooking the garden. As I passed her, she patted my back again.

  ‘I shall leave you alone to talk.’

  And she glided out, pulling the door to behind her.

  To my astonishment, there before me – strangely small against the magnificent carved stone fireplace of my master’s private chamber – was –

  ‘Roger!’

  I had not met him for more than a year – in person or in letters. Though I wrote to him often enough, it was seldom any response came my way. As he had insisted on our first encounter, he was made for dancing and sport, not classroom learning – or, so it seemed, letter-writing. I had resigned myself to that long ago, though the loss of our fellowship and his unfailing cheerfulness had left a gaping void in my life.

  As I stepped forward to greet him, I thought at first that he had not changed at all. Except perhaps he had gained a few more inches on me. But was there something else too? For a moment, I struggled to pinpoint it. But, when I shook his hand before heartily embracing him, it dawned on me. The usual laughing light had vanished from his eyes.

  He drew away from my hug at once and shifted from one foot to another, his fingers fiddling with the strap of his pouch, before he leaned down to stroke Murrey.

  Puzzled that he would not meet my eyes – what had I done wrong? – I forced myself to break our silence.

  ‘I did not think to see you here in London, Roger. How are you? And your family?’ His father’s estate was not far from London, I knew, and that he ha
d a townhouse in the city. ‘There is no trouble at home, I hope?’

  ‘No, not at all, though I am on my way to see them.’

  ‘I thought you were to stay in the north and help Ed rule this new council of his.’

  Roger’s gaze slid sideways towards me and, as he straightened up, his mouth twisted as though in unhappiness.

  ‘Do not joke, Matt. It is hardly a time for jests.’

  His words and uneasiness worried me not a little.

  ‘It’s no joke, Roger. I would not dare. I leave that sort of thing to you. Yet today... Why so serious? Why are you here? Is Alys well? Elen?’

  ‘The Queen has sent me to visit my parents. She thought it might make me feel better. But she said perhaps I should see you on the way.’

  ‘Why? Have you been ill? Ed has not told me of it in his letters. Nor Alys. Though maybe she had not reached Middleham before you left. Although you said the Queen... Alys was travelling with her and the King...’

  Roger stared at me.

  ‘What? Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘But I wrote you a letter. At least, I thought I did.’

  I laughed, a hollow, strained sound to my ears.

  What hadn’t I heard?

  ‘You? A letter? I’ve received only one from you since I left Middleham. And that was just four lines asking what I knew about the rebellion. But perhaps there were others and they’ve all gone astray? Though Ed’s and Alys’s always arrive.’

  I was gabbling, I realized, wondering at his seriousness, my alarm growing. My final words emerged in a stutter.

  ‘This letter, what – what was it about?’

  ‘About – it was about Ed.’

  ‘Ed? What about him?’