Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  Halfway across, Titan lunged through the legs of a knot of people, yapping madly. Ned yelled a command, but when the dog didn’t reappear he swore and followed the animal, hefting his pack over his shoulder. Most people, confronted with his bulk, moved quickly aside. Heading after him with an irritated exhalation, Jack came to a halt, seeing what had drawn the crowd.

  Six heads were being set on the spikes that lined the bridge, which for centuries had been decorated with strings of these rotting jewels. Flies were already settling on the first four, drawn to the bloody fluids leaking from them. The heads were freshly severed, the final agonies of the men still visible on their ruined faces. One of the officials overseeing the grim task moved up to the side of a building and hammered a notice to the wood. Jack guessed it was a list of the men’s crimes and perhaps their names, but the heads and shoulders of the people in front of him obscured the writing.

  ‘What did they do?’ he asked a man in a soot-stained apron.

  ‘Plotted to rescue Prince Edward,’ replied the man, keeping his voice low. ‘Planned to restore him to the throne. Replace King Richard.’

  ‘Usurp the usurper, you mean,’ said Ned, moving up, holding Titan under one arm. The little dog was still barking at the heads.

  The man blanched and ducked away.

  ‘Watch who you say that to,’ Jack murmured.

  Ned didn’t respond. His face was grim, his gaze on one of the heads – that of a bald man with a full black beard, clotted with blood.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know him. I served with him in France when I was there with Sir Thomas. He was one of King Edward’s men.’ Ned’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come on.’

  They left the officials easing the last of the heads on to its spike and the watching crowd whispering to one another. Like bees, thought Jack, they would carry this knowledge back into the honeycombed hive of London. A brutal reminder of what it meant to defy their king. As they left the bridge, passing under the stone arch of the southern gateway, he glanced back across the river towards the Tower, the massive walls of which dominated the view. He thought of the boy imprisoned in that fortress. The boy his father had raised.

  Titan took point as they turned west along the river into Southwark, Ned now silent and brooding. Jack had only been to the borough a few times, but he knew its reputation. Kings and officials had tried over the years to draw Southwark under their control, but it remained outside the city’s jurisdiction. Freed from the same laws as those imposed on London, the place had a long-held reputation as a haven for disorder and debauchery, its gambling dens, bear baiting rings, stews and prisons filled to the rotting rafters with thieves and debtors, prostitutes and outlaws. When he’d first set foot in Triana, Jack had been reminded of Southwark.

  Back from the river, tall warehouses and ramshackle dwellings stained dark with smoke from the lime burners’ kilns leaned precariously against one another like rows of drunken men. Out of their midst emerged the Priory of St Mary Overie, a beautiful white face rising from a disease-riddled body. Beyond, its rose window scattering jewelled light across the rooftops, was the great hall of Winchester House, home of the bishops of Winchester. Past the hall, they entered a riddle of alleyways where washing criss-crossed overhead, forming a dripping tunnel. Moving in the streams of people that clogged the narrow arteries, Jack kept a tight hold on his bag, wary of footpads and cutpurses. The good clothes Grace had given him made him blend into the city. Here, they singled him out.

  Up ahead, he saw scores of cupped hands stretching through iron grates that lined a long wall. The clank of manacles was loud against the bars.

  ‘Watch the Clink,’ warned Ned.

  Veering away from the bars, Jack heard calls for alms and glimpsed filthy, pox-scabbed faces crowding the squalid darkness within. There were several prisons in Southwark, but the Clink, squatting close to the Thames, had the foulest reputation. With some of the rumours he’d heard about the place, he wondered if the men now decorating London Bridge had perhaps suffered a kinder fate. He found himself breathing through his mouth. In Southwark’s court of smells this stink was king. The arms stretched in his direction as he passed, like a nest of blind white snakes, the desperate calls rising as a chorus.

  The alleyways opened all of a sudden on to the banks of the Thames, where fresher air prevailed and the sunlight was cheering. This was Bankside, lined with its stews. The Swan and the Cross Keys, the Boar’s Head and the Rose. Jetties fronted the river, many with steps leading down to the water, where the boats would ferry Londoners to the place where the same laws did not apply. Jack knew the story. Men would pay the ferryman, pull up at dusk and disappear into the alehouses and stews. They would gamble, drink and fight, watch bears and dogs rip one another apart, vomit in gutters and grind themselves into the holes of whores. At dawn they would cross back to the city with the ferryman, leaving their sins behind them where they festered and grew. The whores’ graveyard behind the stews was said to be full of women and girls, stillborn and aborted babies, choking up the lime pits.

  There were a few men drifting in and out already, some still stumbling from the night before, others just getting started.

  ‘Sweet doggy, sir! Does he want a treat?’

  At the voice, Jack saw a row of women sitting on a bench outside the Swan, eating pastries and sharing around a flagon, dappled sunlight from the river playing across their faces. He knew they were whores by their white aprons and yellow hoods – the famous Winchester Geese as they were known, the rents from many of the stews going directly into the Bishop of Winchester’s coffers. One, an emaciated girl, had a bruise darkening her eye.

  Titan had rushed up and was being fussed over by them, ignoring Ned’s calls.

  ‘Or perhaps you do, sir?’ called another, pulling down the front of her dress to reveal pert white breasts that she cupped in both hands.

  Her companions laughed loudly as she blew Jack a kiss.

  ‘Jack,’ Ned said sharply, heading up to a door.

  Seeing the faded sign on the wall of the building, Jack followed, the women forgotten. They had reached the Ferryman’s Arms.

  Ned tried the door. It rattled in its frame, but didn’t open. He frowned, then banged on the wood with his fist. ‘Should be open by now.’

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, Jack stared up at the shuttered windows of the tavern. He felt his frustration rise, burning in his chest. Was this just another waste of time? Another dead-end? Ned’s hammering ground on his nerves.

  Ned stopped and pressed an ear to the door. ‘I hear someone,’ he said, banging again and shouting now. ‘Hugh! Open up! It’s me. Ned Draper!’ He stayed his fist, stepping back at the sound of a bolt sliding across.

  The door opened a crack and a face appeared. Even after all the years that had passed, Jack recognised Hugh Pyke. Once seen, the man was rarely forgotten, his disfigurement marking him in the minds of all who laid eyes on him. Jack’s gaze was drawn to the awful split that carved the lower half of Hugh’s face, almost from lip to ear, slashed open by a Lancastrian blade in the hell of Towton, the wound too wide for stitching. It was a miracle he had lived. Thousands hadn’t that day. Jack remembered staring at Hugh when Vaughan first introduced him to the men of his household, unable to avert his eyes. Hugh had grinned at him suddenly, the scarred folds of skin parting to show yellow teeth all the way back along his jawbone, Ned and the others laughing as he stepped back in alarm and tripped over his father’s pack.

  There was no mirth in Hugh’s face now. He looked agitated, his bloodshot eyes darting past Ned and Jack. ‘What are you doing here?’ His voice had a thick whistling quality that Jack remembered well.

  ‘This is how you greet an old friend?’ demanded Ned, indignant.

  ‘I haven’t got time to drink with you, Ned.’

  As Hugh went to shut the door, Ned wedged himself in the frame. ‘We’re not here for your ale.’ He jerked his head at Jack. ‘It’s James Wynter. Sir Thomas Vaughan’s page.
’

  Hugh’s furtive gaze alighted briefly on Jack, then flicked away again. ‘What of him?’

  ‘He’s got questions, Hugh. About Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Then I suggest he finds himself a necromancer.’

  Ned didn’t budge from the doorway. ‘So you know that our master was executed?’ Anger spiked his tone.

  Hugh stopped trying to close the door. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s Vaughan’s son, Hugh,’ said Ned, gesturing at Jack. ‘Our master left him something. Something you should see.’

  Hugh hesitated, his gaze now on Jack, where it remained. Emotions warred across his face: surprise and curiosity, fear and uncertainty. Fear won. There was a flash of steel as Hugh thrust a dagger he’d been holding through the gap in the door, pointing it towards Ned’s groin. ‘I want no part of this, you understand? Get away from here.’

  As Ned stepped quickly back from the blade, Hugh slammed the door shut.

  Jack stared at the pitted wood, wondering what could have happened in the intervening years to turn the battle-bitten soldier into such a knot of nerves. ‘What now?’

  Ned turned to him. ‘It might be better if you make yourself scarce. Let me talk to him alone.’ He thrust his chin towards the women on the bench outside the Swan. ‘I’m sure you can find something to occupy yourself with.’

  Jack thought of the scrap of paper that Arnold had given to him. ‘I’ve got somewhere to go.’

  Ned nodded. ‘Ah, yes, your house. Well, then, let’s meet back here in an hour or so. Take Titan, will you?’

  Jack whistled. The little dog looked up from a rubbish heap and came trotting over. His short legs and belly were black with grime. ‘You think Hugh will listen?’

  Ned’s smile was grim. ‘I can be very persuasive.’

  Chapter 14

  Lombard Street curved through the centre of London, lined with counting-houses owned by wealthy banking families from Genoa and Venice, Florence and Bruges, who had established offices in England’s commercial heart, as they had in so many cities, spidering out webs of transactions across Christendom with their loans and bills of exchange.

  The buildings were imposing. Several were of red brick with leaded-glass windows and carved oak doors, but most were timber-framed. Unlike the grubby alleys of Southwark, which swarmed with frenetic life, the wide thoroughfare was populated with more sedate inhabitants, many of them dressed in the latest fashions. This was the quarter where nobles came to invest their inheritance in mines, galleys and mills, where merchants arranged insurance for wool and timber shipments abroad, and where kings and princes came to borrow huge sums for their households and their wars.

  As Jack passed one of the banks, two gentlemen in ermine-trimmed robes strolled out talking animatedly in an Italian dialect. Before the door closed, he caught a glimpse of a spacious chamber dominated by counters, behind which clerks scratched away at ledgers. He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. Arnold’s writing was atrocious, but he could just make out the words.

  Off Lombard Street.

  First house on Birchin Lane

  Waiting for two horsemen to pass, couriers by the look of their distinctive leather pouches, Jack crossed the street, calling Titan to follow. A blister had formed on his heel. He could feel the skin rubbing away with every step. Birchin Lane opened to his right, striking north to Cornhill. Pausing at the mouth of the lane, Jack looked at the two buildings on either side that could conceivably be called the first. A closer inspection of the left-hand one revealed a barber’s shop on the ground floor. Dismissing it, he moved to the right, looking up at the three-storey building, its black timber frame strikingly striped against its whitewashed walls. A tiled pentice protruded over the front door, its slope allowing rainwater to run off into the gutter. Above it was a wide casement window. Beyond this, the upper floor was built out on a jetty overhanging the street and giving Jack the dizzying perspective that the house was falling in on him. There were no signs outside suggesting any trade within. This must be it.

  He knocked on the sturdy door and waited. He tried again after a few moments. Then again, as loud as he could, until his knuckles hurt. Nothing. Jack closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the wood. He could feel the dust of the city in the sweat on his face. Exhaustion crept up on him, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, bidding him to surrender. He hadn’t stopped walking since Seville. The soles of his boots were almost worn through and he was still no closer to the answers he had returned to England for. Only confusion and heartache.

  ‘You’ll not find anyone there.’

  Jack turned quickly to see a stocky bald-headed man in a white apron outside the barber’s shop. The man tossed water from the bowl he held into the gutter. Titan dashed to inspect it. ‘No?’ questioned Jack, heading over.

  The man wiped a hand on his apron. ‘It’s been empty for a while now.’

  ‘Can you tell me who lived there?’

  ‘Many, since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Many?’ repeated Jack wearily.

  ‘It was used by officials of the Medici Bank.’ The barber nodded towards Lombard Street. ‘Before their counting-house in the city closed, that is.’

  Jack’s interest was pricked. The House of Medici was one of the most powerful and wealthy dynasties in Christendom. The family, who ruled over the Republic of Florence, had banks and trading interests across the Continent. He’d heard it said their fingers could be found in many pies. Glancing back at the house, he wondered in what capacity his father had had dealings with them. ‘When did it close?’

  ‘Must be several years ago now,’ answered the barber, scratching his bald scalp. ‘The heads in Florence pulled them out. They sold the bank on Lombard to another family, withdrew their representatives and clerks from the house, packed up and left.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Bad debts,’ said the barber grimly. ‘As I heard it, King Edward borrowed a fortune from their officials here and never repaid it. I lost a fair few customers when they left, so I did.’ He inhaled, his chest expanding under his apron. ‘And business is tough enough these days, what with supplies running low and prices high. I get my soap from Spain now, but it costs me more than when it came from Venice. The devils in the east have seen to that, so they have.’

  Jack had caught snatches of similar stories in Seville: traders complaining of shipments delayed or commandeered. Sailors in Triana had spoken hopefully of routes to the east around Africa, avoiding the menace of the Turks, who now controlled all trade through the Black Sea. But only the Portuguese had ventured into that vast unknown and no new voyages had been undertaken for decades.

  ‘My father made a fortune trading silver from the mines in Beirut,’ continued the barber, before Jack could speak. ‘I was set to inherit his company. Then the Turks took Constantinople and our business collapsed.’ He shook his bowl at Jack. ‘A crusade. That’s what we need. The Knights of St John may have turned them back at Rhodes, but who’s to say the devils won’t try again? Who can say whether they will—’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Jack cut across him, in no mood to be drawn into the man’s diatribe. He went to move off, then turned back, struck by a thought. ‘Did you know Sir Thomas Vaughan? I believe he may have visited this house?’

  The barber brightened. ‘The prince’s chamberlain? Of course. I cut his hair whenever he was here on business with the bank.’

  ‘What sort of business? I mean, beyond his role as a court official?’

  The man laughed dryly. ‘Many of my customers talk while I work, that they do. But Sir Thomas? He was a private man.’ He tapped a finger against his bald head. ‘A safe of secrets, I’d say.’ He glanced over Jack’s shoulder and lifted a hand at an approaching gentleman. ‘Excuse me.’

  Leaving the barber to greet his customer, Jack looked back at the house. As he did so, he caught a flicker of movement in the windows of the upper floor. It was brief, but unmistakable.
The twitch of a curtain? Moving closer, he realised one of the casement windows above the pentice was open a crack. There was a rattle of wheels as a cart trundled past the lane, shielding him momentarily from the view of anyone on Lombard Street. The barber had vanished inside his shop, closing the door behind him.

  Jack moved quickly. He leapt up, grabbed one of the protruding struts that supported the pentice and hauled himself up the beam, hand over hand, muscles straining. His pack dangled from his shoulder and his father’s sword dragged at his hip. Any moment he expected someone to shout at him from below, demand to know what he was doing. Grasping for purchase, praying the projection was sturdy enough to bear him, he heaved himself up until he was kneeling precariously on the tiles. Below, Titan was barking at him, but the noise was drowned by the cart’s wheels. The pentice’s slope was shallow enough for him to clamber up to the window on hands and knees. Loose tiles threatened to skitter away beneath him.

  Spider webs threaded grey veins across the window. The casement squeaked as he pulled it, but it opened outwards easily enough. It was a tight squeeze, but he slipped through and dropped into the empty chamber beyond. Titan had stopped barking. Jack hoped the animal would know to wait for him. He didn’t want to have to explain to Ned that he had lost his dog. Pulling the window to behind him, he drew his father’s blade. Its balanced weight felt reassuringly familiar; all those years whetting and cleaning it. The chamber was large, with a beamed ceiling and oak panels covering the walls. Dust swirled in streams of sunlight, disturbed by his presence. He stood listening, but all he could hear were sounds from the street outside.

  Cautiously, Jack moved through a door on to a gallery, which looked out over a grand hall with a black and white tiled floor and a huge hooded hearth. The cavernous space appeared to be empty. He cast his gaze up to the arched ceiling, which disappeared in shadows crossed by beams. On the opposite side of the gallery was another door and to either side a set of stairs. One set descended into darkness, while the others climbed to a smaller balcony with doors leading off to the east and west. Slowly, Jack made his way up, heading for the room to the east where he had seen movement in the window. As he ascended, the stairs groaned, painfully loud in the silence. The door to the room was open, stretching into blue gloom.