Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  For three days he had waited at the Saracen’s Head without sign of his master. On the morning of the fourth, he forced himself to do as Sir Thomas had ordered and left to make arrangements for his journey. In London, waiting for passage on a wool fleet, he’d heard that Richard of Gloucester and the Duke of Buckingham had arrived in the city. Gloucester, it was said, had sent his nephew to the royal apartments in the Tower while arrangements for the young king’s coronation were discussed. He also learned that the young king’s counsellors, Vaughan among them, had been imprisoned in Gloucester’s strongholds in the north and it was with a heavy heart that he had sailed from England’s shores out into the brisk winds of the Channel.

  As Stephen entered the walled city through a grand stone gateway and rounded a corner, Seville’s cathedral appeared before him. It was a colossal structure, easily as large as St Paul’s. Great walls, soft ochre in colour, marched up behind one another, layer upon buttressed layer, to a vast nave that was looked down upon by a soaring bell tower. Scaffolding covered part of its façade and the stifling air was gauzy with dust. Its wide steps were crowded with men sitting in pairs or small groups, all engaged in separate conversations, some sombre, others animated. It looked like a meeting place, hundreds of transactions and deals all happening at once. Along the far side of the square ran a high, crenellated wall, beyond which lay what appeared to be a vast complex of buildings, interspersed with tiled domes and lofty trees. Stephen noted the armed men standing sentry outside the gates.

  He struck east from the cathedral, sweat trickling into the beard he’d grown on the voyage. In the narrow streets beyond the square he found long strips of blessed shade and followed their winding course into a labyrinth of alleys and covered passageways, looking for the place Vaughan had described in haste in the yard of the Rose and Crown. The deeper he went into the Jewish quarter, the quieter the streets became. Words had been daubed on walls and doors. Stephen didn’t understand them, but their red scrawl seemed angry across the façades of the houses with their little shutters painted in different colours.

  After wandering in circles and finding himself back in the same place, he looked around for someone to ask for directions. Seeing a man not far behind him dressed in a blue cloak, hood up despite the heat, Stephen headed towards him. But before he could reach him, the man ducked into an alley and disappeared. Cursing, Stephen continued, finally finding a woman sweeping rubbish from a doorway. As he approached, her expression tightened with fear.

  Stephen offered a smile. ‘Iglesia de Santa Cruz?’

  She pointed to a passageway further up the street then went back to her sweeping, her broom whisking the ground. As he passed, Stephen caught a strong whiff of excrement and realised it wasn’t rubbish she was brushing from her doorway. He crossed the street and entered the passage, a loud bang echoing behind him as the woman closed her door. At the alley’s end, he was rewarded with the sight of a whitewashed tower rising above the other buildings, a bell cradled at its summit. Just past the church – Vaughan had told him – a house with blue shutters.

  Stephen quickened his pace as saw it. He knocked on the blue door, glancing around the deserted street. There was no answer. He tried again. After a moment, he heard footsteps on the other side. A bolt rattled and the door opened a crack, revealing a small, wizened man with a grey beard. His brow furrowed as he saw Stephen. He said something in Castilian, his voice sharp.

  ‘My name is Stephen Greenwood. I have come on behalf of my master, Sir Thomas Vaughan. Are you Jacob?’

  ‘I am Jacob,’ the man replied after a pause, reverting into thickly accented English. ‘But how do I know you are who you say?’

  Stephen faltered. Vaughan hadn’t told him he would need to prove himself. After a moment, inspiration struck and he reached into the leather bag, slowing his movements as he saw Jacob start back. He pulled out a pouch and shook two rings into his palm: Vaughan’s gold band, a gift from his wife, had gone, exchanged for passage on the Golden Fleece. Now there was just the plain silver ring and the one with the engraved gold disc.

  Jacob took up the spectacles that dangled from a chain around his neck and pushed them on to his nose. The old Jew stared at the ring with the serpents entwined around the staff, his expression changing. ‘Come,’ he said, opening the door and gesturing Stephen into the dimness beyond.

  Chapter 3

  It was midday when Jack and Antonio approached the olive grove outside the walls of the monastery of La Cartuja. Mouths sweetened with date juice, they had made their way along the river keeping to the shade, past the stone bulk of the Castillo de San Jorge which towered over the Puente de Barcas, the bridge of boats that connected Triana with Seville. Jack had glimpsed many men clustered in the castle courtyard, as if gathering for something.

  Once part of the Moorish citadel, the Castillo de San Jorge now served as the headquarters of the Tribunal of the Inquisition, established here two years ago by Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. The Inquisitors had been active in that time, hunting down conversos and Moriscos – converted Jews and Muslims – believed to have committed the ultimate offence of reverting to their former faiths in secret. The castle’s cells were rumoured to be full of money-lenders and physicians, awaiting the purifying fire. In the judería, where the Jews had been placed under harsh restrictions, people whispered fearfully of a purge.

  As they neared the monastery, Jack’s heart beat hard in his chest. He thought of Diego’s arena, Estevan Carrillo swaggering in to face him, cocksure and scornful. He had wiped the grin off the man’s face with his fists. But had victory made him the arrogant one? Was he a fool to think Estevan would fight fair in a duel without witnesses? Doubt rose in him.

  Last night he had been hot with wine, buoyed up on the cheers of the men in Diego’s tavern as he told them he’d accepted Estevan’s challenge. Now, sweat soaked his shirt and the wine had turned to poison in his body. For a moment, he thought of turning round, going back to Jacob’s house as Antonio had pleaded. He would make amends with the old man and remain in the dark with him, guarding that locked box and its contents, fulfilling the oath he made to his father, even if he never kept his word – even if he never came. But his feet kept on moving. Wounds to the body would heal. The loss of honour was a deeper hurt.

  ‘They’re here.’

  Jack followed Antonio’s gaze to where four figures were lounging in the shade of a row of olive trees. Four horses were tethered close by, tails twitching. Apart from a few people working in the fields there was no one around. The only sounds Jack could hear were his own footsteps and the buzzing of flies. His opponent had chosen a secluded spot. He curled his hand around the worn leather that covered the grip of his sword.

  Estevan Carrillo watched him come. He and his friends were dressed in shirts of fine linen. Their silk doublets, immaculately pleated, were drawn in at their waists by belts of Córdoban leather, embossed with filigree. Swords and daggers hung from their hips, sheathed in ornate scabbards. Their boots were polished and their hats were decorated with jewels and feathers. Everything about them – their dress, their posture, their sleek and muscular horses – spoke of wealth and status. Jack knew men like them, had grown up with them, subject to the malice of some and the friendship of others. Once, he had thought himself like them; believed that although he had come from a different place he had joined them on the same path. That road had seemed so certain then, each step of his journey mapped out, page to squire, then on to knighthood with all its shining possibilities, his father’s footsteps imprinted before him, showing him the way.

  Estevan, however, clearly recognised nothing kindred in him. As the Castilian regarded him, Jack knew all he saw was a scruffy, shabby-clothed commoner; a man so far below the salt as to be in another room altogether. He had a flash of memory: the woods outside Lewes, face-down in the dirt, surrounded by boys, their taunts stinging worse than their fists.

  Bad-blood! Whoreson! Bastard!

  Then he saw the bru
ise, faint now but unmistakable, at the side of Estevan’s mocking mouth, from that final, gratifying punch that had taken the man down into the dust of the arena. The sight fortified him.

  Estevan seemed to see the change for his smile vanished and he stood up straighter as Jack approached, a sudden wariness in his eyes. When he spoke, though, his voice was dry with disparagement. ‘I did not think you would come, Jack Wynter.’

  ‘I am a man of my word.’

  Estevan grinned at his friends. ‘How gallant.’

  Jack ignored their laughter. ‘To first blood then?’

  Estevan’s eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head. ‘Swords only. No daggers.’ He handed his knife to one of his comrades, his manner now cold, brusque. ‘No strikes to the head or face.’

  As Jack passed his food knife to Antonio, he noted that Estevan’s sword was several inches longer and broader than his own. But that also meant it would be heavier. ‘And the wager?’

  ‘What you took from me,’ replied Estevan tersely.

  When Jack nodded, Estevan gestured to one of his companions. The man, who Jack seemed to remember was called Rodrigo, crossed to where the horses were tethered. When he returned, he was holding two brigandines. One he passed to Estevan, the other to Jack, his brown eyes unfriendly. The jacket was covered in green velvet and decorated with tin-coated nails, which served to hold in place the steel plates beneath the leather. It was stiff and heavy, and smelled of another man’s sweat. As Estevan pulled his on, Jack followed suit, allowing Antonio to help him with the buckles. The brigandine was snug around his chest, but as he gave his sword a few swings he found he had enough free movement. Rodrigo handed him a pair of leather gloves, flared at the wrist and reinforced across the knuckles with more steel plates. Antonio nodded encouragingly, but his face was taut as he moved back with Rodrigo and the other two, giving Jack and Estevan space.

  Estevan rolled his shoulders then executed a few lunges, his blade flashing in the sunlight. He looked good, thought Jack, well-trained and precise. But he had seen many proficient men go down on the field of battle, some of them at his own hand. He thought of the boys back in Lewes. He had shown them in the end, just as he had shown Estevan. They had all awakened the same beast. Now, swinging the sword back and forth in his hand, he opened himself up to its savagery – let it howl.

  The soil beneath their feet was desiccated, the grass burned by the sun. They circled one another, settling into the space, muscles tightening. Jack felt the world around him fall away. All he could see was his opponent and the vulnerable parts he would strike for. The pain in his head was gone and his vision was clear. His heart raced, pumping blood hot through his veins. Estevan moved first, coming in hard. Jack swept in to counter and the clash of their blades shattered the quiet of the olive grove.

  Stephen hastened through Triana’s maze of streets, overheated and frustrated. By the bell of the cathedral it was only just midday. He had time, plenty of it, to deliver his message and return to the Golden Fleece, but he was irritated at being sent all over the city in the hunt for the errant young man.

  The Jew, Jacob, had been concerned to hear what had befallen Thomas Vaughan in England, but that hadn’t curbed his vocal displeasure at having to house the man’s son, who had clearly not been the model guest, coming back drunk and bloody from brawls, if he came back at all. Stephen had been surprised. He had known Vaughan’s son since the days the young man had first served in Vaughan’s household as a page, although it was only in more recent years that he’d learned of his true relationship to their master. He had always been dutiful and hardworking, ever aiming to please and to learn. This didn’t sound like him.

  Reassuring Jacob that his tenure as reluctant warden was over, Stephen had been directed to a tavern on the other side of the river that the young man apparently frequented, only to be told he had left that morning. After crossing the palm of the innkeeper, who had just enough English in him, with silver, Stephen was pointed to a monastery along the river.

  To his right, the mouth of an alley opened, cool with shade. The river lay at its end. As Stephen turned down it, he could see the bridge he had crossed by earlier. There seemed to be some kind of procession making its way across, towards the city. He could see many men in ceremonial black robes. Distracted, Stephen didn’t notice the soft footfalls coming up behind him. An arm snaked around his chest, pinning him. He shouted as a dagger was pressed against his throat.

  ‘Call out again and I’ll cut out your tongue. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stephen swallowed dryly, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against the blade. The English his attacker spoke was somehow more unsettling than the weapon. How did this man know to speak it? That he would understand? Had he followed him from the tavern? Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen could see the folds of a blue cloak. Blue cloak? He thought of the man in the Jewish quarter, who disappeared before he could ask for directions.

  ‘I know why you’ve come. Tell me where it is.’

  Stephen’s heart raced. Dear God. Had this man followed him from England?

  ‘Is it with the Jew? Or does Vaughan’s son have it?’

  Stephen said nothing. His fingers twitched, wanting to grab the hilt of Vaughan’s sword, but he knew he’d be dead before he could draw it.

  ‘We always suspected he was sent away with it.’ The man pushed the blade against Stephen’s throat, grazing blood from the skin. ‘But we never knew where.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I can go back to the tavern – find out what the innkeeper told you. It looked as though a few coins should do it. Where is it, Stephen?’

  So, he knew his name. Stephen was desperate to turn around, face his attacker; find out who he was. At the same time he felt that to know this was to invite death. He closed his eyes.

  ‘You have no idea what Vaughan is up to, do you? No idea what great evil you are here to work on his behalf.’ The man shoved Stephen against the alley wall, planting a firm hand on his back to keep him there. ‘God damn it, Stephen! Tell me where it is!’

  Now Stephen’s head was turned he caught sight of his attacker’s face in the shadow of the cloak’s hood. Shock flooded him at the recognition.

  Swords locked, they pushed against one another, sweat stinging their eyes. Jack drove his blade against Estevan’s, forcing it away with a screech of metal. He lunged into the opening, snatching at Estevan’s arm with his free hand, but the man jerked out of reach and Jack only managed to grab his shirt. There was a ripping sound as the sleeve tore. Estevan cursed as he sprang free, face flushed with exertion and rage. Bringing his blade up, he circled Jack, breathing heavily.

  Jack’s lungs were burning and there was a metal taste like blood in his mouth. He could barely raise the spit to swallow. The brigandine felt like a cage around his chest, trapping every breath. Earlier, Rodrigo and the others had been urging Estevan on. Now, they were silent. Jack kept his eyes on Estevan, wondering how much longer they could both last in this heat. No blood had been drawn, despite their fierce attempts. They were well-matched and each as determined as the other not to give quarter.

  Estevan struck again, bringing his sword round in a brutal arc.

  Jack swung in to counter and smashed his blade away. The impact shot painfully through the muscles in his arm. ‘No head strikes!’ he shouted angrily, realising the blow would have carved through his neck had it struck.

  Estevan didn’t seem to heed him. He thrust in again, this time stabbing towards Jack’s unprotected thigh. Jack battered his blade aside and kicked out, catching Estevan above the knee. The man’s leg buckled under him and he crashed to the ground. His sword was up fast, however, and he cuffed away Jack’s vicious jab, before punching his own blade upwards. Jack staggered away, the tip missing him by inches. The son of a bitch had aimed for his groin.

  As Estevan pushed himself to his feet, Jack charged him. The man got his sword up in time to block, but while their blades were pinned together, Jack head-butted h
im in the face. There was a satisfying crack as his forehead connected with Estevan’s nose. Estevan reeled back, blood streaming from his nostrils. With a snarl, he pushed away one of his friends, who stepped in as if to help him.

  ‘First blood!’ panted Jack.

  Estevan wiped his nose with the back of his arm, staining his torn sleeve red. He spat into the dust, then looked at Jack, his face a mask of pure fury. As he raised his sword, Jack knew first blood was no longer an option. Estevan had said he wanted what he’d taken from him in the arena. That wasn’t money. No, it was something deeper, more precious. This had just become a fight to the death. Antonio seemed to realise this too, for he started forward with a cry. Rodrigo grabbed him before he could go to Jack’s aid.

  A shout rang out through the olive grove behind them.

  ‘James? James Wynter?’

  Surprise jolted through Jack at the sound of his birth name. He whipped round to see a man approaching, dressed in a blue cloak. He didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Who is this?’ Estevan demanded, distracted by the appearance of the stranger. His tone was wary, with good reason. Fighting an unauthorised duel could mean serious trouble for both of them.

  ‘James?’ the man questioned again. He was breathing hard.

  Jack nodded, but kept his sword raised.

  ‘You need to come with me. Your father has been arrested by the Duke of Gloucester for plotting against him. He stands accused of treason.’