The Order of the White Boar

by Alex Marchant

  On our return to the palace, a party of riders, newly arrived, were churning the snow in the stableyard to grey slush. As I swung down from Storm, one turned and saw me. A handsome fair-haired gentleman about the age of Duke Richard, he threw me the reins of his mount.

  ‘Take my horse, boy, and see you treat him well.’

  ‘But, my lord,’ I began, glancing around for a groom or stable lad.

  ‘Come, don’t stand there idling. Take my horse, I say. And you will address me as Your Grace – if you address me at all.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace, of course.’

  I bowed low, hurriedly retrieving Murrey as she protested again. The man strode towards King Edward, and bowed in his turn.

  ‘Harry,’ the King boomed. ‘How are you, my boy? You come too rarely to court. How is your delightful wife, our sister Catherine? Well, I hope.’

  Even at this distance, as the newcomer straightened up I could see the grimace on his face, momentarily hidden from the King.

  ‘She is well, I thank you, Your Grace. She would have joined me, but for the fact that I shall be occupied at Parliament and no company for her.’

  He bowed also to Edward and Duke Richard, who both returned the gesture, before the King clapped him across the shoulders.

  ‘Go on in, Harry,’ he said. ‘We’ll join you and the Queen when we’ve finished here.’

  Edward wandered over to me as the man stalked off with his companions towards the palace. Ever hopeful of more treats, Murrey sat to attention for him, her wagging tail brushing the thin snow off the cobbles.

  He reached into his pouch for a morsel. As he circled it over her head, she stood on her hind legs and performed a perfect pirouette, her nose barely an inch from the tidbit. He flicked it to her and as she snatched it from the air, I asked,

  ‘So who was that?’

  He squinted at me.

  ‘Oh, that’s Uncle Harry. He’s Duke of Buckingham, married to my mother’s sister. We don’t see him often – he spends most of his time on his estates.’

  He held up another treat for Murrey, trying to persuade her to spin again.

  It struck me that I’d forgotten to use his title when I spoke to him, but it seemed he wasn’t as bothered about it as his uncle. This new uncle.

  ‘I’m not sure my mother likes him much,’ he went on. ‘Last night I heard her say…’

  But he broke off as his father and other uncle came up, just in time to see Murrey perform for him again.

  ‘She’ll make a very good dancer,’ he said, eagerness bubbling in his voice as she claimed her second reward.

  ‘Just like her owner,’ the King said. ‘An unusual colour, but she’s a fine hound.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Duke Richard. ‘She’s from Florette’s latest litter, like to be her last. You remember, your Conqueror is the father.’

  ‘Ah, a royal hound. Then she should have a royal collar.’

  The King tossed an order to a serving man who hurried away into a nearby building and in a moment re-emerged, bearing a tray. His master ran a finger across the variety of items on the tray, then selected one, a wide leather strap adorned with brass studs.

  He knelt down on one knee beside Murrey and buckled it around her slender neck. I was grateful that my hound, hopeful of another tidbit, had ceased to grumble.

  With one large hand on the cobbles, the King pushed himself back to his feet. A narrow shaft of sunlight pinpointed for an instant a gilt fleur-de-lys stitched on to Murrey’s new collar.

  ‘A good dog – if perhaps a little small.’

  ‘My huntsman called her a runt,’ said Duke Richard mildly. ‘Though he did afterwards apologize for the suggestion that a royal couple could bear a runt.’

  The King let out a great shout of laughter and slapped his brother on the back.

  To my surprise, the Duke staggered forward, more than I would have expected, even with the weight of that great paw behind the slap. A spasm contorted his face.

  The King’s other hand caught him before he fell.

  ‘Forgive me, brother. I forgot myself,’ he said, his face unreadable.

  The Duke took in a quick breath, straightening up, then himself laughed, his hands brushing down his doublet.

  ‘It is no matter.’

  ‘But it pains you still.’

  ‘Only after a long day in armour, or when riding an unfamiliar, half-broken horse.’

  ‘Then you will not take the colt?’

  ‘I think not.’

  Before I could grasp the meaning of this exchange – was it some private family jest? – the King turned to me.

  ‘And you, Master Wansford. How did you like your new mount?’

  ‘Very well, Your Grace,’ I managed to say, startled though I was at being addressed again. ‘Though I shall prefer it when I have my own Bess to ride again.’

  ‘Your own horse? That will be soon enough if you are leaving with my brother tomorrow. But perhaps before then you will instead dance with my Bess.’ Perhaps he saw the puzzled frown still on my face, for he continued, ‘My eldest daughter, Elizabeth. Perhaps this evening it will be her turn to dance with you. Now we know the service you did her cousin.’

  I bowed as low as I could.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace. And for the gift of the collar.’

  The King patted my shoulder and walked away back to the palace, his son and brother at his side. I had to hook a finger through Murrey’s new finery to stop her trotting after the source of all those treats.

  Chapter 15

  Twelfth Night

  That night I did indeed dance with the Princess Elizabeth, if it can be so described.

  Barely a moment her hand rested in mine each time we circled one another before she passed on to the next male dancer – her brother Edward, standing alongside me. But I was dazzled by her smile, and by the few words she bestowed on me.

  ‘Master Matthew, my father tells me you rescued my cousin Edward in a snowstorm. You have my thanks as well as his.’

  That the King had thought to mention me! It was one of many memories from an evening crammed with them.

  The last day of Christmastide was marked by the most elaborate festivities. A fabulous banquet with more courses than I could number. Not one or two, but three dancing bears. Then troops of mummers performed for the assembled guests.

  It was very different from the Bible stories of our Corpus Christi plays in York, but, may God forgive me, I enjoyed it as much. The jewelled costumes, colourful speeches, ribald songs, fantastical monsters fashioned from sumptuous fabrics stretched over wooden frames, the swordplay agile like dancing, the dances alight with fire-eaters, sword-swallowers, knife-jugglers. And with the dancing that followed under the still-flaring torches, all my senses were sated by the time, long after midnight, when the Queen rose.

  She gathered her children around her like her voluminous satin skirts, and prepared to leave. At her throat, the fire of the brands reflected from the liquid depths of the blood-red ruby the King had presented her this Twelfth Night. Each daughter wore a similar jewel, though smaller – blue, green or purple – his sons thick gold chains draped around their necks.

  As they each curtsied or bowed to their father, I fingered the soft emerald green cloth of my new doublet. My own gift from him as a household guest. I had found it laid out in the pages’ quarters on my return from the ride.

  The final deep curtsey was by the Queen to her husband, then the high table almost emptied as she swept from the hall with her family. Only the King and Duke Richard remained standing there together, Lord Hastings now behind them, a hand resting on the shoulder of each.

  The Duke of Buckingham reseated himself at the end of the table where he had remained all evening, never rising to join in the dancing. As I straightened up from my bow to the departing Queen, he was nursing a goblet and watching the King and his companions from beneath hooded eyes.

  Before long, as usual, Duke Richard took his leave. A bear hug from hi
s brother, clasped hands with Lord Hastings and my lord of Buckingham, both also sporting heavy gold collars, and he was striding towards the door.

  I fell in behind him, but a pace or two into the corridor, he swung round.

  There were few candle sconces here. After the bright torchlight of the great hall, his face was hardly visible in the shadows.

  ‘Matthew. Stay longer if you wish. It’s your last night in the palace. I don’t need your services tonight.’

  ‘Your Grace, I would rather not.’

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and I followed him through the tortuous twists and turnabouts of passageways to his chamber.

  I opened the door for him. Revealed within were his body servants asleep in chairs, one even sprawled before the flickering fire.

  I looked to see if the Duke was angry, but he only smiled.

  ‘It’s been a long night of waiting for them. Help me wake them, Matthew. If you will attend me, we can send them off to their beds.’

  Together we shook them awake.

  I smelt wine on one man’s breath, and drips of deep red stained the snowy cloth beneath the jug set ready on a table. But I said nothing, and neither did the Duke.

  In a few moments, yawning and apologizing, the servants were sent on their way. Murrey alone remained, curled up still fast asleep on the hearth rug, where I had left her at the start of the evening.

  I poured a goblet full of wine for the Duke and set it down beside his fireside chair, taking care to replace the jug over the spots on the white cloth. Then, picking up my lute from the corner, I sat upon a stool on the fringes of the firelight and toyed with the strings.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the Duke wasn’t disposed to settle. He paced the candle-lit room for a time before pausing at the window. Pushing aside the heavy embroidered curtain, he rested his hands on the stone ledge and stared out at the twinkling lights across the river.

  For some minutes the stillness was disturbed only by the sweet notes of the lute and Murrey’s soft snores.

  ‘In a month’s time – maybe six weeks – we will be home again.’

  I started at his voice. Had I been drifting towards sleep?

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Home, Matthew – in a month or so. The good citizens of York have requested that I report matters of Parliament to them. We will stay some days.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. And then on to Middleham?’

  He glanced round at me.

  I ran my fingers over the strings, fearing that he had noticed I’d stopped playing. For the life of me I could not remember the tune.

  ‘Yes, then Middleham. If your father will let you return.’

  ‘Of course he will, Your Grace.’

  That he wouldn’t had never occurred to me.

  If I’d been half asleep before, this thought woke me altogether.

  ‘Being at the castle has been so good for me. I’m sure he will say that. And I’ve made such good friends there.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your friends. Roger, Alys – Edward. You’ve been spending a great deal of time with them.’

  ‘Is that wrong, sir? One of the other pages —’

  I remembered what Hugh had said, all those weeks ago.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He said you might not like it. Edward making friends with a merchant’s son.’

  ‘Why would I mind that? I myself spend much of my time with merchants – they’re the backbone of England in these days. Who – ? No, no matter. I can guess who it was. No, I’m grateful for your befriending Edward. He has been lonely in the past. And angry not to be a page himself. But we couldn’t send him away.’

  ‘I have heard him called –’ what was it Roger had said? ‘– delicate?’

  ‘Delicate? I suppose so. He has had bouts of illness ever since he was born. As you saw on the boar hunt. Some say that is what happens when cousins marry.’

  ‘Cousins?’

  ‘Yes, the Duchess is my cousin. Or at least her father was. You have heard of the Earl of Warwick? Though perhaps he died before you were born.’

  ‘The Kingmaker? Just after, Your Grace.’ This was even more complicated than Roger had said. ‘He was your cousin? But he fought…’

  ‘Against my brother? Yes. Strange, isn’t it? That one cousin should fight another – even for such a prize as the crown. I pray that will never happen again. And then our brother George…’

  He fell silent again, gazing out at the starlit night.

  I recalled what Roger had told me of the Duke’s other brother. I gave up trying to pick up the tune again, thinking perhaps I was going to be dismissed.

  ‘Do you have brothers, Matthew?’

  His question surprised me. My mind had been so caught up with his family.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. Three, and two sisters.’

  ‘Older or younger?’

  ‘Two brothers are older, Your Grace, and one sister. And then there is the baby.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the little one.’

  I could see his face only in profile, but the glimmer of a nearby candle caught the curve of a smile. Had the Duchess told him my story?

  ‘And do you look up to them?’

  ‘My brother Frederick is apprentice to a bookbinder and getting to be a very fine archer, they say. The other, John, became a cantor when he left the Minster school. And my sister, Agnes, is to be married to a mercer. My father is very proud of them all.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m proud of them too, my lord. What younger brother wouldn’t be?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Well said. That should be the way with younger brothers, shouldn’t it? Always to love and respect them, but Matthew… never worship them like heroes. One day they may do something that —’

  His voice trailed away, his eyes fixed once more on the far distant bank of the Thames.

  I wondered at his speech. Was he thinking of his dead brother George? And why today?

  I moved to pluck the lute again, but the Duke swung round and leaned back on the window ledge. Beyond his shoulder, the lights across the river mirrored the stars in the velvet midnight sky.

  ‘It’s late, Matthew, and I am tired. We must to our beds. If you will first assist me…’

  I propped the lute against the stool and was at his side in an instant.

  He unclasped the gleaming collar of heavy gold links that had been his brother’s gift and handed it to me. I held it, marvelling at its weight, while he unlocked his jewel chest to place it safely within. Tucking the key, on its fine neck chain, once more beneath his white linen undershirt, he began to remove his doublet, while I poured water from a ewer into a basin for him to wash.

  There was a stiffness in his movements as he shrugged the doublet from his shoulders and I stepped forward to help him guide the sleeves off his arms.

  He nodded at me as he unlaced the neck of his shirt.

  ‘Thank you, Matt. My brother’s colt was not a relaxing ride today and I’m a little sore from it. Your help is welcome.’

  He sat down on a nearby stool, his back to me, and raised his arms. I gripped the lower hem and pulled the shirt off over his head.

  I couldn’t stifle my gasp at what I saw then, thrown into shadowy relief by the jumping firelight. Of a sudden I understood what had happened in the stableyard after our ride.

  The top of my lord’s back was twisted to one side, like the root of a gnarled tree, the curve pushing one shoulder a little higher than the other.

  ‘My lord!’ I said, without thinking. I couldn’t keep the horror – or the fear – out of my voice.

  His reply was calm.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Nothing, my lord?’

  ‘Well, sometimes it’s something. But mostly —’

  He stood up and, going to the table, began to wash.

  As he splashed the water, then briskly dried himself with the towel I handed him, question after question sped through my head. Then he was sta
nding there waiting, and I hurried to gather up his night shirt, laid ready across the bed.

  Easing the clean linen over his head, and then gingerly across his shoulders, only one question came spilling past my lips.

  ‘Does it hurt, my lord?’

  Duke Richard laughed, a short bark of a laugh.

  ‘At times. Usually only when I’ve been in full armour all day – or perhaps when I’ve been softened by too much good living, as at court. Mostly, indeed, I do not notice it.’

  ‘The physicians – can they not…?’

  ‘I’ve had all the best treatments, Matt – surgeons, poultices, even a wooden rack to stretch me straighter. They didn’t do that for long.’ Again, a laugh. ‘Nothing works. Our Lord gives us each our burden to bear, and we must bear it with fortitude. I live with it.’

  He reached for a fur mantle from the foot of the bed and swung it around his shoulders. For the first time I felt the growing chill.

  As I grasped a poker to stir the fire back to life, among my still-tangled thoughts, one stood out.

  ‘But in battle, my lord? They say you’re a great warrior, the King’s most steadfast general. How can you…?’

  My words faltered and I fell silent.

  How dare I question a royal duke in this way?

  But as I turned back to him, no anger touched his face, only thoughtfulness.

  He took up the goblet I had filled and folded himself into the carved, padded chair.

  ‘My physician thinks it may have been from too much early weapons training. I was a young boy – younger than you, Matt – when I was first a page in my cousin Warwick’s household. I was not always a strong child, small too for many years. Perhaps I tried too hard to overcome that after my father was killed. My brother became King and I knew I had to serve him. And when my back began to… well, I knew I could overcome that too.’

  He took a sip of wine.

  ‘Of course, superstitious people might put the blame on witchcraft.’

  ‘Not I, my lord.’

  ‘No, Matthew, I well know your views on such magic. But perhaps your wise woman in York could find some cure or some help for it instead. Indeed, she could do no worse than the learned men I have consulted.’