by Robyn Young
‘Please, my brother needs more medicine. I beg you, summon the physician.’
‘My lord prince?’
There was silence at this. The fingers vanished and a small figure appeared, further back in the room. ‘Who are you?’ came a tremulous voice.
Chapter 26
As Jack entered the chamber, Prince Edward backed towards the bed where his brother lay. The ashen-faced youth put his hand to his mouth as Hugh followed a moment later, his gritted teeth visible through the slit in his face as he dragged in the guard. ‘Please! Don’t hurt us.’
‘We’ve come to free you,’ Jack told him, tugging out the bundle Charity had secured beneath his tunic. ‘Here. Put these on.’
As the prince stared in mute confusion at the white gown and long blonde wig that were handed to him, Jack crossed to the window, which was covered with a thick, braid-trimmed curtain that let in little daylight. The air in the chamber was stuffy and stale. He tried to imagine being locked in such a small space for nigh on six months. It would be hard for a grown man to bear. For two children it must have been insufferable.
Parting the curtain an inch, Jack squinted through the window. He made out the wagon in the gardens below, fractured into diamonds by the strips of lead that criss-crossed the glass. The merry men’s song had finished and the guards were moving in. He could see the steward gesturing angrily at George and a few of the players climbing into the wagon. Ned was still prancing about, but it was clear the performance was over. What little time had been granted to them was up.
Jack strode to the bed. Hugh had left the guard sprawled on the floor and was struggling to lift Edward’s younger brother. ‘We’ve got to go. Now.’
Richard, the Duke of York, was limp in Hugh’s grip, his head lolling, eyes half-lidded. The boy’s sweat-slick skin had a greyish tinge. Jack remembered Elizabeth Woodville saying her son had a fever when Gloucester’s men had come to take him from her sanctuary. Whatever the sickness was it had clearly claimed him.
‘We’ll never get him out,’ muttered Hugh, shaking his head.
Jack knew he was right. Even if Ned were here, as had been the plan, he wouldn’t have been able to secure the lifeless boy under his robes with the belts, let alone get him safely away.
‘You cannot leave him!’ Edward had appeared behind them. The prince had pulled the white gown on over his clothes, but he still clutched the blonde wig, gripping it in his small fists as he looked from Jack and Hugh to his brother, his eyes desperate.
Jack planted his hands on Edward’s shoulders. ‘You trusted Sir Thomas Vaughan?’
‘Yes,’ came the immediate response. ‘With my life.’
‘Then trust me too, for I am his blood. His son. We will come back for your brother. I give you my word. But for now, my lord, we must go.’
Edward hesitated. Then, squeezing between them, he leaned over the bed and kissed his brother’s waxy cheek. ‘I will return for you,’ he whispered.
Hugh was already at the door. Jack steered Edward towards it with one hand on the youth’s shoulder, the other helping him put on the wig. The transformation was surprising. With the rosebud mouth and snub nose of his mother, the prince looked far more suited to the part of Maid Marion than the pockmarked youth in George’s company. Now they just had to smuggle the prince into Charity’s wardrobe. If they could make it from the tower without being spotted anyone who saw them at the wagon would hopefully think Edward was part of the troupe. The players were right now supposed to be performing; too busy to notice them stowing a costumed boy in the dressing compartment. But any questions from George’s men could be fielded later. All that mattered now was that they leave this place unseen.
Jack locked the door behind him, leaving the dead guard inside, then tossed the keys through the panel, thinking to slow Glover and the others when they came looking for their missing comrade. Taking his dagger from his belt he guided the prince down the spiral of steps.
Hugh had almost reached the exit when he turned abruptly and came racing down the passage. ‘Back!’ he hissed.
As they piled into the stairwell and Jack closed the door, he heard Reynold Glover’s harsh voice.
‘Should have thrown the fools in the moat.’
Footsteps echoed as the two men returned to the guardroom. Prince Edward stood shivering on the bottom step.
‘We’ll never get past them,’ Hugh whispered. ‘Not all three of us,’ he added, glancing at the prince.
Jack turned to the door opposite the stairs. Carefully sliding the bolt across, he tried it, a plea in his mind. His prayer was answered when the door opened with a stiff creak. Stairs curved down into gloom, a slit window the only source of light. The wind whistled through it, causing the webs that veiled the stairwell to undulate. There was a smell of damp and age.
His dagger thrust before him, Jack headed down, followed by the prince, then Hugh, cobwebs breaking and parting before them like gossamer curtains. At the bottom was another bolted door. Opening it a crack, Jack peered out into a store area, barrels and crates piled up around the walls. He could see two doors leading off. One was closed, but the other was ajar, muffled voices drifting from within. He guessed they must be in the Wakefield Tower. He knew from his last visit that the upper chambers connected to the royal apartments, which was not where they wanted to be.
Jack crept towards the open door. Pressing himself against the wall, he stole a look through. Beyond, a short flight of steps led down into a spacious round chamber. He could see two men below, one leaning against a table, the other sitting on a stool, elbows resting on his knees. Both had swords sheathed at their hips and were dressed in scarlet jackets and hats. A row of pikes was propped against one wall, far more than there were guards. Jack recalled the steward saying most of the men had gone with the constable to Kent.
His eyes moved between the two guards as he thought. They would have plenty of warning the moment he and Hugh appeared on the steps – enough time to defend themselves or, worse, sound an alarm. They needed to get them up here. He looked around the store area, his gaze alighting on the thin, pale figure of Prince Edward. The white gown seemed almost to glow in the gloom and the blonde wig, strung with cobwebs, floated around his face in the restless air. A ghost for All Hallows.
Ushering the boy in front of the door they had just come through, Jack motioned Hugh to the other side of the guardroom entrance and lifted his dagger in explanation. As they stood against the wall, either side of the door, Jack let a soft moan through his lips.
The guards’ idle conversation stopped abruptly.
‘What was that?’
‘The wind, you fool. Someone’s left a door open.’
Jack moaned again, a low, mournful sound.
‘Jesus!’
There was a scathing laugh, followed by footsteps on the stairs. ‘Frightened of the storm, are you? I’ll come back and sing you a lullaby.’
The grinning guard appeared, ducking through the archway. He stopped dead, seeing the small white figure standing by the closed door. ‘Holy mother,’ he breathed, clutching his chest.
All his attention fixed on Prince Edward, the guard didn’t see Jack lunge to the side of him. Clapping his hand over the man’s mouth, Jack pulled him into the shadows. Before he could struggle free, Hugh pitched forward and stabbed him in the neck, driving the blade in deep and twisting it. The man bucked and jerked, gurgling wetly into Jack’s palm as he choked on his own blood.
‘Hubert?’
More footsteps sounded on the stairs.
‘Hubert, I don’t care for your jesting.’
Jack dropped the dying guard to the floor as his comrade appeared in the doorway. This time the man saw him before he saw Prince Edward. He shouted in alarm and drew his sword. As Hugh seized his arm the guard whipped round, kicking out and catching him hard in the knee. Hugh managed to keep hold of his sword arm, but both of them went staggering into one of the piles of crates which toppled with a great crash. Jack pitche
d in, dodging the man’s flailing blade, to gut-punch him. The guard curled forward with a gasp and Hugh, bending over him, sliced his throat with a rapid slash of his dagger. Jack grabbed hold of the shocked prince and ran down the steps into the guardroom, Hugh at their heels.
Barging through a door to the right, they emerged in the blustery murk of the afternoon. Straight ahead, the water-gate opened beneath St Thomas’s Tower, offering them a glimpse of the rushing darkness of the Thames. The smell of the river filled the air, Edward’s gown flying like a flag in the cold wind. Jack turned, hearing the fading clatter of hooves and wheels. In the distance, heading for the Byward Tower, between the inner and outer walls, was the wagon. Jack began to run, pulling Edward along with him, feet slipping on the wet stones. The wagon was approaching the gateway where earlier the guards had directed them through. The wagon slowed as it neared the gate. Putting on a burst of speed, the three of them caught up to it. Jack glimpsed Ned framed in the open door, his face tight with concern. Relief flooded it as he saw them.
No chance to follow their plan, Jack lifted Edward up for Ned to pull him in. Jack followed, hoisting himself through the doorway, then turning to give Hugh a hand up, ignoring the stunned stares of the players. The wagon shifted uneasily.
George turned to look in through the hatch. His gaze alighted on Edward, before flicking to Ned, who sat heavily against the side. ‘You owe me for this, Draper,’ he said, his voice spiked with anger. ‘Let’s go!’ he snapped at the driver.
The wagon lurched forward, the lantern swinging wildly above their heads.
‘Who’s she?’ asked the scrawny youth, frowning at Edward, who drew his knees up to his chest, the blonde hair slipping forward to hide his face.
Looking to Valentine Holt, who still had the fuse looped around his fist, Jack nodded his thanks. Holt merely smiled.
‘What the hell is going on, Ned?’ demanded Robin Hood, snatching off his feathered cap.
Ned didn’t answer. ‘Where’s the other?’ he murmured, glancing from Jack to Hugh.
Jack shook his head. He leaned back against the painted trees, sweat trickling down his face. His heart was beating so hard it felt as though it might punch its way out of his chest. He had blood on his hands he realised. He wiped them on his hose as the wagon passed through the Byward Tower, the guards waving them through without question.
They were heading along the causeway, approaching the Lion’s Gate when behind them, somewhere in the Tower’s heart, a bell began to clang.
It was hopeless. Of that he was certain. Yet, still, Carlo di Fante searched, moving from room to room in the flooded tavern. Every now and then he had to stop, clutching a wall or a doorframe, while he waited for the waves of pain to subside. Beneath the bandage, his wound throbbed, the skin tight and hot.
He could hear Goro searching the chambers upstairs again, his heavy footfalls creaking across the boards. Outside the rain had stopped, but the wind still rattled the shutters of the Ferryman’s Arms and the water that had seeped into the building showed no sign of receding. In the sickly light of the lantern Goro had set on one of the barrels in the empty tavern, Carlo could see its darkness bubbling up from the cellar, bringing dead rats and debris bobbing through the currents that swirled around his legs. The stink of it seemed to be crawling up his nose and down his throat.
Carlo’s mind filled with an image of the men loading the wagon outside just hours earlier. If only he’d known then what he knew now he never would have wasted time waiting in the rain outside St Thomas’s Hospital, having paid a penny to a novice to bring him information on the girl who’d been brought in. He’d had no idea, until Goro found him there – telling him a man one of the others had called Wynter had chased him – that the girl had already led him to his quarry. His frustration was as bitter as bile.
‘Sir?’
Carlo glanced round to see Goro had come down from the upper rooms. He hadn’t even heard him. He wiped his clammy brow with his sodden sleeve. ‘Nothing here,’ he said tautly. ‘Up there?’
Goro shook his head and kept it lowered; hangdog. The large man rubbed at his mask, a habit he had when nervous. He’d been subdued since Carlo had berated him for running from Wynter; shouting that Goro should have lured him away from the others and overpowered him, that it was his fault if they never found him again. After that they had gone together to the tavern, but the moment Goro shouldered their way in, Carlo knew the men were gone for good.
All was not lost. The girl had led them to their quarry. Now, they just needed to pick up the scent. That scent began with the Marvellous Shoreditch Players. There was still time to hunt and find them – still time to get what he had come to this godforsaken city for, to do his duty to the Holy Father. As sweat dripped from his nose and his skin burned, Carlo thought of Christ in the wilderness, slouching through the wasteland, His mouth turned to sand with thirst and despair.
A sign, O Lord. Send me your angels.
Carlo staggered, the room around him spinning. Goro splashed to his side to catch him before he fell. Carlo shook his head and tried to push him away. ‘We have to find him. The players – we start with them.’
‘We will,’ Goro promised. ‘But you must rest. It is almost dusk. The bridge to the city will be closed soon. We could stay here for the night? It is dry upstairs. We’ll hunt them down at first light.’
Reluctant, but without the strength to do anything more, Carlo let Goro lead him through the waters towards the stairs. As he climbed them, he heard the faint tolling of a bell across the river, somewhere to the east.
One of the guards at the gate raised his hand to halt the wagon as it approached along the causeway. The bell continued to clang. Two others were reaching for their swords. Ned was poised by the hatch, staring through it. Valentine had opened one of his apostles and was pouring black powder into the barrel of the arquebus, trying to keep it steady. The Foxley brothers were fitting their crossbows with quarrels, not tipped with cork. The players were looking at each other, faces taut with unknowing apprehension.
Suddenly, more bells joined the peals, a cascade of chimes rippling out through the city, from the nearby All Hallows by the Tower, to St Helen’s Priory in the north on to St Bride’s and St Mary le Bow, all the way to the father of all London’s holy places – St Paul’s, the deepest and loudest. It was a ringing wall of sound that every soul in purgatory would surely hear. The guards faltered, lowering their weapons. Clearly thinking the Tower bell was ringing the All Hallows’ chimes, they stepped aside, allowing the wagon through the gate. Jack almost laughed as he thought of his father, somewhere beyond that shifting veil. Adam Foxley was grinning at him, his eyes saying – I told you he would be with us.
The wagon had left the causeway and was trundling up the muddy track towards the Bulwark Gate when shouts rent the air. Now, the sound of hoof-beats clattering off stone could be heard even over the din of the bells.
Ned thumped the wagon roof. ‘Go!’ he yelled through the hatch. ‘Go!’
George took up his shout and the driver obeyed, cracking his whip over the backs of the horses, causing the wagon to leap forward and things to crash about in the compartment below. The players and Charity clutched hold of the sides as it bounced and skidded over the rutted ground. The lantern spun like a flaming dervish above their heads. Several loud thumps struck the roof. Jack shouted and pushed the prince down as an arrow shot through the opening and buried itself in the boards by his foot. Charity screamed. Titan was barking unhappily, sliding about on his paws.
The guards on the Bulwark Gate had heard the shouts of alarm. Through the hatch, Jack glimpsed them moving quickly to haul the iron-studded gates shut. Ned was roaring at the driver. George was roaring at Ned. Some of the guards scattered as the wagon hurtled towards them. One man, still trying to close the gates, was knocked flying as a wheel clipped him. Then the wagon was thundering through and careening up Tower Hill.
Behind them, up on the parapet of the Bulwark, Ja
ck caught sight of a puff of white smoke followed, a second later, by an orange flash and a resounding bang that ricocheted off the nearby buildings. He didn’t even have time to yell a warning before the gun shot its load. The cannonball smashed across the top corner of the wagon, ripping open a hole to the sky and making one of the horses squeal. It did no other damage and it would take another minute at least for the men to reload the weapon. But behind them now, riding furiously along the causeway, came the Tower guards.
‘God damn you all!’ George was shouting. ‘God damn you to hell for dragging me into this madness! I should have slammed the door in your face, Ned Draper! I’m done for!’
As the wagon veered on to Tower Street, the mad clang of bells all around them, Jack fought his way through the rocking interior to where Ned, still in his Friar Tuck robes, was clinging to the hatch. ‘We’ve got to get to the dock!’
‘We jump,’ said Ned. ‘Lose them in the alleys.’
‘The map,’ Jack reminded him. They wouldn’t have a chance to get it from the compartment below, not with the guards hot on their heels. He couldn’t leave it.
Ned swore. ‘I’ll slow us down. But you get them out,’ he added, his eyes flicking to Charity, desperately hanging on to one of the painted trees. Turning, Ned pulled himself through the hatch, struggling to get his bulk through the space. George was still swearing at him. There came the sounds of a scuffle, followed by a violent lurch as something heavy fell from the wagon.
‘Go!’ Jack urged, herding Charity and the others to the back. As the shuddering wagon began to slow, he compelled the players out, giving Charity his hand to help her swing down. Most of them needed no encouragement, but David Foxley was there with a shove for any moving too sluggishly. A few of them swore bitterly at him.
Robin Hood remained where he was, defiant, until Hugh thrust his bloodied dagger in his face. ‘Jump or die!’