Court of Wolves

by Robyn Young

  15

  Men called it the thunder of God. The ear-splitting bursts from the cannons ricocheted through the valley, the mountains volleying every explosion back as a series of answering echoes. The air itself – hot as hell even with the early morning’s cover of cloud – the ground, the sky: everything seemed to shudder with the fury of each barrage. Smoke billowed, accompanied by flashes of fire, the rushing hiss of fused powder and the shouts of men, readying to prime the weapons for another shot.

  Harry, watching the assault with a host of men on the edges of the royal camp, could only imagine what the Spanish gunners, stationed on the hillside opposite Loja, must feel with every chest-shattering boom. The guns the supply train had dragged from Córdoba – a mixture of fat-barrelled bronze cannons and slender iron serpentines – were lined up alongside those already in position. Lashed to movable platforms that controlled the line of fire, they had joined with the others in violent chorus, launching their deadly shot of iron, lead and stone at the town.

  Harry had heard the guns called various names, which Rodrigo had endeavoured to translate: bombard, mortar, falcon. There was even one called an organ, made of three tubes that fired lance tips, no doubt lethal to any man exposed on the battlements, although he’d not seen this one used yet. The enemy remained elusive, ensconced behind their scarred but indomitable walls, just the odd flicker of movement on the walkways, occasional high-pitched screams when a cannon found a mark, and sometimes, in the hush between bombardments, the eerie wailing of their prayers. Occasionally, a puff of smoke from a tower-top, a great boom, and one of the Moors’ own, much lighter, guns would answer the Spaniards. But the king’s artillery was protected by stout wooden screens, buttressed with earth, and, so far, Harry hadn’t seen any of the enemy’s cannons do any real damage.

  There was an explosion of stone as a projectile smashed through the side of a tower, pulverising a section of it. Rubble rained down with a distant roar. It was greeted with ferocious glee by the men around Harry. El Barbero, his face twisted with a vicious grin, turned to Rodrigo, yelling something Harry didn’t catch. Harry noticed the hidalgo’s hands were clenching and unclenching as he watched the assault, as though he wanted to be the one to do the damage; to crush skulls and bones, not stone.

  ‘They are making good work of it today!’ Harry shouted.

  ‘By the might of our guns and by God’s will, the infidel will fail!’ Rodrigo responded, his black eyes glittering.

  ‘The king will be pleased.’ Harry faltered as Rodrigo returned his intent gaze to the barrage of the cannons. ‘Perhaps he will see me today? If all goes well?’

  Rodrigo glanced distractedly at him. ‘Patience, my friend. You will get your audience soon enough.’ Another triumphant roar of men swept his attention back to the town, where another section of the broken tower had been struck. The hidalgo’s lips peeled back in a savage smile.

  Harry gritted his teeth. He had been in the king’s camp for over two weeks now, but although he’d been formally introduced to Ferdinand and accepted as England’s ambassador, the king – cordial, respectful – had been too preoccupied with the siege of Loja, and all the comings and goings of men and reports from other companies in the region, for a proper audience, or the niceties of diplomatic relations.

  Harry felt the days turning as if by the handle of a vice, the passing of time tightening the anxiety inside him. Columbus’s proposal might not have progressed much further than the queen’s mild interest, but if he was to be certain of preventing the man from securing any funding or real support from the monarchs – scuppering his chances of launching any serious expedition west – he would need to have wound his way much closer into the royal circle than these fringes he found himself lingering at. King Henry had conceded the mission would take time, but just how long Harry would have to remain here to complete it was unclear.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

  Harry turned sharply to see Edward Woodville at his shoulder. In the clamour he hadn’t noticed his approach. Harry’s heart thumped harder. He had been startled, the day he arrived at the king’s camp, by the sight of the English knight in this foreign place. But before he’d had a chance to ask how he had come to be here, Woodville had left with a company of Spanish lancers on a special assignment. It was something Rodrigo had called a tala: the burning of crops and destruction of farmsteads, crippling the enemy’s ability to supply their increasingly isolated towns, forcing them east into the Vega of Granada, corralling them like animals. The company had returned four days ago, trailing a stale odour of smoke and driving a whole herd of cattle before them, the beasts now penned near the camp; living plunder. In the knight’s absence, Harry had been left to wonder, and then to fret, over his presence.

  He had heard at the king’s wedding that Woodville was abroad. But here? The coincidence had made him question whether Henry could have sent him too. Tudor had a fondness for competition among his men, using it to gauge strength, loyalty, ambition. Harry had seen him employ it in many arenas, from the tennis court and jousting field, to his household and court. The thought that the king might have sent Woodville with the exact same mission as himself had nestled in his brain where it had festered. He knew well what it was to have his place – his future – thrown into turmoil by a usurper. More and more, the memory of following his father to that house in the woods outside Lewes had played in his mind: the soul-deep shock as he’d watched his father embrace a woman who wasn’t his mother and laugh with another son.

  Edward Woodville squinted as he surveyed the distant cannons. ‘Impressive indeed.’

  It was bright, even with the cloud cover. A brightness Harry found got stuck behind the eyes, where it needled the brain. ‘I hear the king is most pleased with the success of your mission, Sir Edward. Congratulations.’

  The knight smiled placidly. ‘It was easy pickings.’

  The man’s modesty nettled Harry. Even in just the few days he’d seen him in the camp, he’d not failed to notice how admired Woodville was by King Ferdinand, who’d given the knight a tent almost as grand as his own and, yesterday, had presented him with a pair of golden spurs in honour of his accomplishment. Harry had watched, teeth gritted. Ferdinand, in their brief first meeting, had welcomed his pledge to fight, but the courtesy made Harry feel supremely foolish when he’d discovered Edward Woodville had brought with him three hundred men, most of them Welsh archers, who’d already earned much admiration for their skill from the Spanish.

  ‘I hear you’ve been asking questions about me.’ Woodville’s easy smile remained, but his blue eyes were now fixed on Harry.

  ‘I was merely curious what brought you here,’ Harry replied, cursing inwardly. He’d thought he was being careful in the probing he’d done in the man’s absence – getting Peter to try to unearth what his purpose here was. ‘I wasn’t expecting to find a fellow Englishman.’

  Woodville maintained his gaze, but his sunburned face relaxed a little. There was dust caught in the bristles of his red-blond beard and a smudge of soot on his cheek above the scar, the stitches of which were beginning to be pushed out by skin. ‘My brother, Sir Anthony, fought the Moors in Portugal, years ago. He always spoke of going back, to finish God’s work. But then . . .’

  Harry nodded. There was no need to finish the sentence. Sir Anthony Woodville had been with his father, escorting Prince Edward to London for his coronation, when they had been arrested by Richard of Gloucester and sent to their deaths – an act that had left Richard free to take custody of the prince and seize the crown.

  ‘After Henry’s coronation I made a pledge to honour his wish. So I came here.’ Woodville pulled a gold chain from the stiff neckline of his brigandine, on which hung a cross. He touched it to his lips. ‘A crusade for my brother.’ There was another harsh cheer as a second tower beyond Loja’s walls took a hit. ‘I’m told you are here as King Henry’s emissary. A knight now, too?’ Woodville stowed the cross. ‘I must admit, I was surprised to hear it
. I never knew Henry held you in such esteem?’

  ‘My father was an ambassador for King Edward. In the courts of Burgundy and France.’

  If Woodville noticed the offence in Harry’s tone, he didn’t show it. ‘Of course he was.’ He laughed wryly. ‘I wonder what Sir Thomas and Sir Anthony would think of us now? We men of York – our fealty sworn to a Lancastrian king? What a strange course Fortune’s wheel can turn.’ He blew through his teeth at another air-splitting series of booms from the Spanish cannons. ‘By God, even more thunder than Richard’s forces had arrayed against us at Redemore Plain.’ His smile faded, those blue eyes sharpening again. ‘But I suppose you wouldn’t know that, Sir Harry. Being as you weren’t there.’

  Harry’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed as Woodville continued.

  ‘You never gave me an answer – no clear one at least – at our Lord Henry’s coronation, when I asked you where you were. I always wondered at your absence from the battle, given how close Henry kept you after you warned him Richard was trying to make a deal with the Bretons to have him delivered to England. I wonder even more now, with your new position of authority. What other task did Henry have you doing last summer? What could have been so important that it kept you from the war? A war Henry needed every man he could muster for?’

  Harry’s head filled with an image of Prince Edward – Woodville’s nephew – screaming as he was bundled on to a horse in the clearing of the woods near Dijon, where they’d found the hunting lodge, the fire taking hold behind as they rode away. The blood was pounding so hard in his temples it took him a moment to realise that the guns had fallen silent and the men around him were starting to move. The bombardment of Loja had paused. It would start again after prayers and food. He was opening his mouth to speak, not even knowing what words – excuses, lies – were about to come forth, when Rodrigo interrupted them.

  ‘Sir Edward,’ the hidalgo greeted respectfully, before turning to Harry. ‘Shall we break our fast?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Harry murmured to the knight, shamed by the weakness in his voice, but now desperate to be out from under Woodville’s piercing gaze.

  ‘Of course. No doubt we will have other opportunities to talk, Sir Harry.’

  ‘What is wrong?’ Rodrigo asked, as they headed across the grass, parched by the sun and flattened by the constant traffic of men, beasts and equipment. ‘You look as pale as milk.’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just the heat.’

  Rodrigo chuckled. ‘You English never handle it well. Come, you need food and shade.’ He glanced back at the beleaguered town, the air gritty with dust from the destruction, his face set. ‘We will all need our strength before long.’

  The evidence of that was plain as they walked through the camp. In one area, clear of tents, animal pens and fires, the wooden towers Harry had spotted on his arrival were now near completion. Carpenters were still at work on two, the clanking of hammers audible now the guns had fallen silent. The Spanish called them bastidas. The towers, set on wheeled platforms, were hollow in the middle, with a ladder inside that climbed to the top where a hatch opened like a drawbridge. They had been built to the size of Loja’s walls and, when moved to the base, would allow men to scale them within the defensive cover of the tower. Each was coated with leather soaked in vinegar to proof against fire, its astringent smell sharpening the air. Harry didn’t envy those who would be the first out of those hatches, over the wall and into the teeth of the enemy.

  Around them, men crouched by fires, digging bowls into pots of stew. The different companies were almost impossible to number. Along with Ferdinand’s own troops, there were several magnates: dukes and counts, all commanders in their own right with armies under their authority. There were nobles like Rodrigo: vassals of the queen or squires in her royal guard, and other hidalgos not so closely affiliated with the monarchs, many with their own bands of men. Some were very rich, others poor. There were caballeros and the knights of the Holy Brotherhood, and several prelates, who seemed more like warrior princes, wearing armour with as much pride as the cross. And there were thousands of tan-faced, coarse-mouthed men: farmers and workers called to serve as infantrymen, camp followers, foreign mercenaries and the homicianos: murderers, rapists, thieves, released from gaols with the promise of pardon in return for service.

  Harry, wondering how on earth this fragmented body functioned as a whole, had heard enough from Rodrigo to know that sometimes it didn’t. There was a suggestion that something in its disparate nature had led to the rout in which his father had been killed. Still, although, as in any army, each man had come for his own reasons – duty, honour, prestige, boredom, plunder, absolution, revenge – all seemed to share one common goal: to wipe the infidel from the soil of Spain.

  ‘Don Luys!’ Rodrigo hailed the man Harry had first seen him greet on entering the camp.

  He’d been told he was another hidalgo, highly favoured by Queen Isabella, and – according to Rodrigo – as a father to him, but other than that Harry knew little, Don Luys preferring to keep to his own company.

  Don Luys was wearing his black robe lined with white leather and his usual hostile expression. He and Rodrigo spoke fast and fluid, Harry catching snippets of words, helped by gestures that formed the vague sense they were talking about the morning’s bombardment and the coming assault on Loja. As they talked, Harry searched the shifting crowds of men for any sign of Edward Woodville, half fearing the knight might have followed him.

  His heart had slowed, but his thoughts were still racing. His worry about Woodville’s presence seemed, at least on the face of it, to have been assuaged with the knight’s claim he had come here under his own volition, on crusade. But it had now been replaced by greater concern. Woodville, it was clear, was not at all satisfied by his answers at the coronation. But he couldn’t tell the man the truth: that he, Harry, had not only delivered Woodville’s own nephew to his death, but by that action had helped establish the reign of a Lancastrian king, ending all hopes of the House of York and those who had served it. If Woodville discovered this, Harry reckoned his fears about failing Henry or the danger posed by the Moors would be the least of his troubles.

  He was drawn back as Rodrigo, in mid-conversation with Don Luys, motioned to him. Luys gave Harry a cursory glance, eyes hardening. He shook his head, lip curling in a scowl. After a few more words, they grasped one another’s hands firmly, then Don Luys stalked off, his leather-lined cloak swinging from his broad shoulders.

  ‘Were you talking about me?’ Harry questioned, as they walked on. It was frustrating, not knowing what men were saying about him. He really must pay more attention in Peter’s lessons.

  ‘I asked if Don Luys wanted to join us for food.’

  ‘He didn’t?’

  Rodrigo glanced at him. ‘Do not take his demeanour personally. He is not fond of Englishmen. Believe me, even Sir Edward’s charms will not win his favour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His son was killed by one.’

  Harry saw some spark in Rodrigo’s eyes – a momentary flash of pain or anger – then it was gone and the man was gripping his shoulder.

  ‘Come, let us eat.’

  But, as they approached their tents, they saw an agitated crowd gathered outside the king’s pavilion. Moving closer with Rodrigo, Harry saw the king’s physician and other servants rushing out, bearing bowls, pliers and armfuls of linen. Surrounded by the growing knot of people were a dozen or so men. Several were wounded, some badly, lying on the ground and being tended to, their faces ashen. There were horses nearby, mouths and nostrils white with foam. As the saddle was removed from one beast it collapsed. Grooms struggled from the nearby river, hauling buckets of water to splash over the animals.

  King Ferdinand was crouched beside one of the wounded, whom his physician was inspecting. The man was shuddering, his face, contorted with pain, an oily grey. The physician had cut away his bloodstained gambeson and pulled up his shirt to reveal a deep puncture wound in the man�
�s abdomen, packed with what looked like small wads of cloth, seeping yellow pus. The whole area was dark and swollen. Feverish red tendrils snaked out from the wound; telltale signs of infection. Harry caught the king and the physician exchange grim, knowing looks. After placing a hand on the man’s trembling shoulder, the king rose to speak with a group of men who had arrived, among them the Marquis of Cádiz, a veteran of the war, here with his own army.

  ‘Wolfbane,’ murmured Rodrigo, eyes on the man now whimpering in pain as the physician poured what looked like wine over the wound. ‘It grows in the mountains,’ he added, glancing at Harry. ‘The Moors dip their arrowheads in a mixture of it. It infects any part of the body it pierces. It’s a wretched way to die.’ He turned to question a man beside him, then relayed the information to Harry. ‘They were part of a scouting company. A band of enemy archers attacked them last night, not far north of here.’ His teeth clenched. ‘They lost ten men.’

  ‘Don Rodrigo.’

  The hidalgo turned quickly at King Ferdinand’s voice. ‘My lord?’

  The king, the marquis and other officials were ducking into the pavilion. Rodrigo looked back at Harry. ‘I’ll find you when I’m done, Sir Harry. Tell my men I want them ready to move out. I imagine the king will have orders for us.’

  ‘Orders?’

  ‘Lord Ferdinand will want retribution. If we are so honoured, we will be his sword.’

  With that Rodrigo strode towards the pavilion, leaving Harry alone in the milling crowd, the cries of the wounded in his ears and a creeping stench of death in the stifling air.

  16

  From up here the city seemed serene, gleaming in the amber haze, cradled on all sides by steep hills punctuated with the dark exclamations of cypress trees that ascended into distant mountains. To Jack, it looked like a vast cloak of russet and gold lying crumpled in the valley, decorated with precious stones, the cathedral’s dome a great jewel in the centre, the Arno a snaking green ribbon, pinned by its four bridges. He’d only left it that morning, riding out from the Porta Fiesolana, but already the sweltering heat, the oppressiveness of the tight alleys, the eye-watering stench of tanneries and wool-washing sheds, the constant clamour of carts and people and animals, the ceaseless hum of flies, all seemed hard to imagine.