A grey veil of mist parts before me. Tatters drift off to either side, to left, to right. I put up my hand to push them away. Clammy, cold air.
A dark, vaulted space. Ceiling high above. So high. So dark. Mist vanishing like incense into the void. I look back down.
Before me now a great grey slab of stone. A figure hunched over it.
Tap, tap, tap.
I step forward.
The man twists to stare at me, then turns back. Hammer, chisel in his hands.
Tap, tap, tap.
Upon the slab, a boy. Yet not – Cold, grey stone.
Dark shadowed eyes. Sad shadowed eyes.
I know his face.
Tap, tap, tap.
Biting at the stone. Scarring it. Scribing a name.
I step closer to read it.
E – D – W – A – R – D.
Across the cold, stone boy, two faces. Two boys.
Hollow eyed. Kneeling. Dark shadowed eyes.
I know their faces.
Who? Where?
Tap, tap, tap.
Cold, damp, upon my hand. A push. A whimper.
Tap, tap, tap.
I opened my eyes.
Darkness.
Murrey’s nose moist against my palm. Whining. Shoving me to wakefulness.
I drew a deep breath, murmured a prayer to drive away the dream. A sad dream, I remembered. But it was vanishing fast. Like mist touched by the sun’s early rays.
I stretched out my limbs to waken them.
Tap, tap, tap.
I froze, my body rigid.
But, no, not the chipping of cold stone this time. The faraway clang, clang, clang of hammer on hot metal. The armourer of last night? Or another. Closer this. But still distant.
A man’s cough. Nearer. Outside the tent.
The whinny of a horse, a crunch as hoof scraped on dry ground.
Little noises. Night-time noises.
I knelt up, pushed my blanket away. Drawing the curtain aside revealed more darkness. But greyer now.
My eyes adjusting, I dragged myself to my feet and went outside. Two guards shuffled to attention, then relaxed, nodding at me, the mere boy.
Different men now. How often had the guard changed while I had lain there, oblivious?
The moon was setting.
Almost full, it rested a moment on a far-off hill. But it wasn’t the great gold coin of other nights. Its gleam was tinged red.
‘Blood moon,’ muttered one of the guards as it slid down behind the dark bulk of the hill and soon was lost from sight.
I shivered.
He spat on the ground.
‘Bad tidings for the traitor.’
A camp fire flared before a nearby tent, then another further off.
‘Not long till sunrise, I reckon,’ said the second guard.
He grasped my shoulder, turning me around and pointing. A thick grey line sketched the outline of trees on the other horizon. The tentative call of a bird broke the silence, another chirruping in answer. ‘Time to wake His Grace?’
Slipping back through the flap, I rolled up my mattress and blanket, then felt my way across the pitch-dark tent. At the table, I fumbled in my pouch for my tinderbox, and struck a light on a candle in its gilded holder.
I shielded the flickering flame with my hand and, with Murrey a lithe shadow at my heel, approached the King’s fabric-shrouded bed.
He was sleeping still, his head upon an embroidered linen pillow, an arm outflung across the fine cloth of his coverlet. In the pool of candlelight his face was younger than I had ever seen before, the lines smoothed away by sleep.
For the briefest moment the face of his son, poor Ed – not glimpsed for two years – swam before my eyes. Then my dream came back to me.
My hand shook and the candle flame quivered.
Murrey whined, her dark eyes liquid in the candlelight as they gazed up at me. The fingers of my free hand twined themselves in the tufted fur of her head.
The King’s eyes opened, then narrowed at me, bending over him.
‘Matthew?’
‘My lord, it is time to rise.’
I drew back, pulling Murrey with me.
He eased himself off the bed, then reaching for a thick fur mantle upon a nearby chair, swung it around his shoulders and strode towards the tent’s entrance. As he tugged the flap aside, the guards stamped to attention. He bid them a quiet good morning as he passed.
I trailed after him, still clutching Murrey’s collar. The metal fleur-de-lys stitched there was cold against my hand. I recalled old King Edward buckling the leather strap around her neck as I stepped forward to stand beside his brother.
We gazed out at the camp as it began to stir.
Before us, grey ranks of tents marched down the dark hillside, swallowed up by the pool of mist gathered on its lower slopes. In the distance only the tips, their pennons limp in the windless air, poked above the milky depths.
Among the nearer tents, ghostly figures glided, their calls, laughs, greetings to their fellows floating to us above the wreathing mist. Here and there the comforting glow of camp fires. I could see cooking pots hung over the hot coals of the closest.
Far to our right, men were busy among rows of horses, feeding and watering. Again the clang, clang, clang of hammer on metal, but this time I did not heed it. Instead I watched King Richard as his gaze swept across the awakening camp.
A chill still cut the air. As the King gathered his fur cloak about him, I longed for my blanket but did not move to retrieve it.
A serving man scurried up and knelt before the King.
‘Your Grace? Do you wish me to waken your chaplains?’
‘Aye, and my lords Norfolk and Lovell, if they are still abed. Also Lord Strange. We shall take Mass together this morning.’
The man hurried off and we were silent once more.
Rooks cawed in distant trees. Above our heads, the last sparks of the stars were fading as the greyish light grew in the east.
Then the King spoke.
‘Well, Matt, what do you think of your first battle camp?’
And without waiting for an answer, he walked towards the horse lines. To left and right men stopped what they were doing to bow and hail him.
‘’Morning Your Grace.’
‘A fine day for a battle – once that mist clears.’
‘The traitor will be quaking in his boots at sight of that moon last night!’
How could they be so bold? To speak first to the King before he had spoken to them?
But perhaps it was a privilege of soldiers. King Richard evidently found no fault with them, for he only smiled and greeted them in return.
But when we reached the first of the horses, the man who hastened up to us took no such liberties. As he knelt before King Richard, I recognized him as the horse master from Middleham.
‘I bid you a fair morning, Master Reynold,’ said the King. ‘How are you and your charges today?’
Master Reynold rose to his feet.
‘Well enough, Your Grace, though it was an unquiet night. As ever, they sense what is to come.’
The horses, mostly dark shadows, were quiet now, busy with their nosebags while grooms scuttled among them checking legs and hooves. In the first line, a pearly grey stood out in the lingering darkness. Storm, the King’s favourite. Last seen by me carrying the King in his triumph.
His Grace ran a hand along his neck, pulled out strands of forelock trapped beneath his halter.
‘Well, boy,’ he murmured, ‘you have served me well in the past, but today your son shall do me the honour.’
As he slapped the stallion’s neck, he glanced past him towards the second row of beasts. And there, tossing his head while a groom brushed his gleaming moonlight coat, stood Windfollower.
Almost three years had passed since my eyes had beheld him, but I knew him. His power and the terror of being on his back as he bolted headlong across the water meadows at Middleham rushed back to me now.
The King looked down at me. Whatever he saw in my face caused him to say,
‘He has changed since your little adventure, Matt. He’s now well trained and a fitting mount for a king about to ride into battle.’
He gave Storm a final pat and turned towards the throng of tents again. As the light in the sky grew, their outlines were becoming more distinct against the veil of mist. To the east a low bank of cloud on the far hills was edged with pink where the sun would soon rise.
The King’s face was calm as he surveyed the landscape.
‘One last battle, perhaps,’ he said quietly. ‘With Tudor dead, there will be no more false claims. I shall push the French to a treaty, like the Scots. And Portugal –’
He glanced at me. Though the light was dim, I caught the trace of a smile.
‘You will be pleased to know I have followed your advice, Matt – and that of my advisors, of course. About remarriage, I mean. It has helped to hear that Anne – Her Grace the late Queen – had spoken of it. Though I know not why she spoke of it to you...’
‘I had been telling her my story, Your Grace. Of my stepmother and my father.’
‘Of course. A happy man. And why should I not find happiness again? I have sent ambassadors into Portugal to offer myself in marriage to the Infanta Joana.’
‘Infanta, Your Grace?’
‘Princess, Matthew. The King’s sister. And though she is Portuguese, she is descended from our third King Edward, and so is the senior Lancastrian heir to the English throne. If we marry, it will unite the houses of York and Lancaster for all time. Would that not be a fine thing? To make an end to the reason for all these years of fighting over the crown of England.’
‘Aye, my lord. Truly it would.’
‘And she is a most beautiful and religious woman – so her ambassadors tell me. I expect to receive a portrait of her soon. I wonder what she will think of mine.’
The flicker of a nearby fire danced in his eyes as they ranged across the now stirring scene.
I remembered that day in Westminster when I had entered the palace to find him fidgeting while the painter took his likeness. How sad his eyes had been then, so soon after his wife’s death. Was that the portrait that would be sent – or would another of him in this more buoyant mood be preferred?
Mention of that far-flung land spurred another memory.
‘I had heard tell that your niece, the lady Elizabeth, is perhaps also to marry into Portugal.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Is it no more than a rumour, Your Grace? I’m sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn.’
‘Do not worry, Matt. It is one rumour that I hope may have some basis in the truth.’
‘Alys Langdown told me of it in a letter.’ Or had it been Elen? ‘That a Portuguese duke was seeking her hand.’
‘Manuel, yes. He is Joana’s cousin. And is Elizabeth happy with the arrangement?’
‘Alys says she can’t wait.’
As the words tripped out, I feared that I had again blundered, but the King only laughed.
‘That is good – that she is keen to wed. It is a pity that Alys herself is not.’
‘I’m sure she will do your bidding in all things, Your Grace. But... but she would perhaps do it more cheerfully if her husband were not to be Ralph Soulsby.’
‘Alys always was a headstrong creature. But we will await the outcome of the battle – and Dame Elizabeth’s decision.’ He turned to face me. ‘Or, tell me, Matt, do you have some other husband in mind for her?’
‘No, indeed, my lord. Not I.’
His back was towards the lightening east, his face cast in shadow, and I could not tell whether he was in jest. Flustered, I sought to divert him and reached in my pouch for a morsel with which to entice Murrey to dance.
My hand brushed against cold metal.
Closing my fingers around it, I drew it out. It was the coin that Master Ratcliffe had handed me in London. The crowned head and tiny boar stamp were as fresh as when newly minted more than two years ago.
As I lifted my eyes, they were caught by the ghostly tendrils of mist still drifting before us.
‘I dreamed last night of your son, my lord.’
‘My son? Edward? You saw him?’
A tug in the King’s voice made me regret my words.
‘I saw a stone cutter. He was carving his name.’
Tap, tap, tap.
‘And I saw two other boys. They weren’t Ed, but – but they looked like him.’
I glanced up at the King.
He was staring ahead once more, but his eyes didn’t see the newly bustling camp.
‘Like Ed – but not Ed.’
‘I think they were his cousins, Your Grace, your nephews. The princes that were. I rode with Edward, the elder. I knew his face.’
He was silent.
Perhaps I should have said no more, but...
‘Your Grace – those rumours...?’
‘Rumours?’
‘About your nephews, Your Grace. That were whispered during the rebellion.’
‘Ah, yes, those rumours.’
He gazed ahead still.
A pause.
‘You believed them?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ I protested.
‘But you remember them.’
‘It was just my dream, Your Grace.’
‘I had hoped they would be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, they say. And they have, haven’t they?’
I said nothing. Did he mean the rumours – or the boys?
‘The men at Merevale will not be fighting for my brother’s sons today. No, rather they will fight for a French-backed pretender who they say has already proclaimed himself king. A traitor who has little more claim to the English throne than many here – or others still abed far from here.’
‘My lord?’
‘They say he plans to marry my niece Elizabeth. A Yorkist bride, to make his claim more secure. No mention of her brothers. And Tudor could not let them live if he were to become king. There, that is their death warrant – unless those rumours are true and I signed it myself long ago.’
He fell silent.
I cursed myself inside. I should not have mentioned the boys, stirred him to such thoughts. Not on this morning.
Did he sigh before he spoke again?
‘But, in any case, the deed is done. Two years ago I accepted the crown – and today I must fight for it. If God grants me victory here, I will know I did the right thing. If I should be defeated —’
Before I dared challenge his words, a serving man bustled up to us and bowed.
‘Yes?’
‘Your Grace, all is ready for Mass. The gentlemen are gathered in your tent.’
The King nodded, then turned back to me.
‘Pay no heed to rumours, Matt – and perhaps even less to dreams. My brother Edward once told me of a terrible dream he had – full of demons and the shades of executed traitors come back to haunt him. Later that day, he won a glorious victory. Have you heard of the battle of Barnet? Myself – I had slept hardly at all that night. I was just eighteen. It was my first battle...’
He placed his hand on my shoulder.
‘But this will not be yours, Matthew. You must soon be on your way. Attend Mass, then be off.’
‘But, Your Grace, I —’
‘Do not be mutinous. You must not await the outcome of this battle – your message is too important. Your master should already know what he must do, but it will do no harm to remind him. Come.’
He swung round. At last the sun broke free above the hill and its crowning bank of cloud, and King Richard’s face was flooded with a wash of morning light like liquid gold.
He squinted and raised a hand to shield against its suddenness, then laughed.
‘The sun in splendour indeed. It shines upon this day’s endeavour.’
And he strode towards the royal tent, the servant in his wake.
But I hung back.
I
was angry at myself for revealing my dream, ashamed at provoking the King to speak of – of a matter I had not even thought of for almost two years. Who was I – a mere subject – to question a king – whatever he might have done?
Murrey nuzzled my hand as I watched the sun rise above a copse of trees atop the far ridge. Among them, the spire of a distant church was stark black against the golden sky. As I set off slowly after the King, an idea nudged at my mind.
Inside the tent priests in full vestments were preparing for the Mass. The towering crucifix I had seen the night before stood ready on a cloth-of-gold-covered altar, a silver chalice and a salver for the bread alongside.
Several gentlemen, known and unknown to me, came to greet the King as we entered. Lord Lovell, his fair face solemn as he bowed, then embraced his old friend. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, Master Kendall. Three or four others. One, a young man with a thatch of whitish-blond hair and the palest of brows, hung back until nudged forward into a bow by Master Ratcliffe. Then came His Grace the Duke of Norfolk whom I recalled from my glimpses of him long ago in London.
Tall and lean, his face tanned and lined by long years of soldiering, he inclined his head, then clasped the King’s hand in a firm grip.
‘Dickon. I trust you’ve slept soundly.’
‘Aye, Jack. Well enough.’
‘My lords Stanley and Northumberland are not attending Mass?’
‘I did not summon them, though Lord Strange here stands for his father.’ The fair young man bent his head towards the King again, his face expressionless. ‘Their lordships will have enough to do this morning without trailing here from their camps. Each must take care of his own soul today.’
The King’s companions joined him in his smile, but as he stepped across to the campbed to throw off his mantle, their smiles dropped away.
I hastened to pour water into a basin for the King to wash, then helped him on with a loose morning robe. As I fastened it about him, I asked quietly,
‘Do you wish me to sing at the Mass, Your Grace?’
No candles lit this corner of the tent and his face was shadowed as he answered,
‘Nay, lad, not this morning, though I believe my lord of Norfolk there would like to hear you. Perhaps I will send for you for our thanksgiving Mass on our return to London. But not today. Save your strength – and your voice.’
It was with relief that for once I took no more part in the Mass than the other worshippers. Not only had I been afraid my voice would let me down, but my dream still weighed heavily on me, despite the King’s words. The prickling in my eyes came as no surprise as the priest intoned the familiar words of the prayer from last night: ‘most gentle Lord Jesus Christ, keep thy servant King Richard, and defend him from all evil and from all peril past, present and to come...’
The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2) Page 18
