Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  Spread before them was a feast of cheeses, veined and pungent, pickled salmon, roast pork, venison and syrupy fruits preserved in exotic spices, all pilfered from the bishop’s personal stores. Lionel Woodville, the Bishop of Salisbury, was not present to enjoy his bountiful offering. Another of Lady Elizabeth’s errant brothers, he had been unmasked as one of the leaders of the rebellion and was currently rumoured to be in Exeter with his nephew, Thomas Grey. They were in command of the last real force of the resistance, the rebels in Kent having fallen to the Duke of Norfolk and others elsewhere in the south and west having lowered banners and arms, many simply unable to reach muster points across flooded rivers and impassable roads.

  Richard watched Tyrell spear a thick slab of meat and take a great bite, juices dripping down his chin. The knight’s appetite had clearly not been dimmed by the bloodshed he’d just been witness to. He pushed his own plate away, his meal barely touched. He had been starving when the smells had begun to drift from the kitchens, the long march from Leicester through Oxford to Salisbury stirring his appetite. Then, shortly after Mass, while Buckingham had been giving up his fellow conspirators, word had come from Poole and Richard’s hunger had died.

  He had cut off the head of the insurrection this day and a combination of his men and the storms had severed many of its limbs. Tomorrow, he would leave Salisbury at the vanguard of the royal host and march on Exeter, where he would slice through what was left of the body. But the heart – the beating heart had slipped through his fingers.

  Yesterday evening, several of Henry Tudor’s ships had been sighted off the Dorset coast. Richard’s agents, set to watch the seas for sign of the enemy’s fleet, had waited for him to come ashore at Poole Harbour, quick to hide liveries that would betray their allegiance, hoping he would take them for friends. He hadn’t. Something had spooked him, for Henry Tudor – the man who had come to take his crown – had turned his storm-battered galleys around and sailed back out into the Channel, without ever once setting foot on English soil.

  Some of Richard’s advisers saw this as a blessing, a humiliating defeat for the young upstart, forced to turn tail and run, his allies in England beleaguered by weather and by Buckingham’s unpopularity. But Richard could not be so heartened by the rebels’ disasters. He had wanted Tudor in his custody, not a totem of disaffection, out there on the Continent able to continue to foment trouble.

  ‘Your cousin needed to be made an example of, my lord.’

  At the murmur, Richard glanced round at Francis Lovell. His friend and chamberlain clearly thought Tyrell’s confirmation of Buckingham’s execution was what had turned him from his food. ‘Of all the blood I have spilled, my cousin’s is the death I shall mourn least.’

  Francis searched his face and nodded after a moment. ‘Tudor.’

  Richard sat back in his cushioned chair, positioned between the benches, worrying his lip between his teeth. The skin there was cracked and raw. ‘He must be dealt with, Francis. Now I know his intentions I cannot have him out there, a snake in long grass, free to strike again.’

  ‘As soon as we have vanquished the rebels in Exeter we will turn our attention to Tudor. Do not forget, my lord, you have an important ally in the form of his stepfather. Lord Stanley may yet be useful in Tudor’s repatriation.’

  Richard inclined his head, but said nothing. Lord Stanley had indeed seemed an ally in this campaign, joining him at Leicester to advise on strategy, but Richard did not yet know whether the man had been involved in his wife’s treacherous alliance with her nephew and son. There were many loyalties he now needed to test before he could trust the strength of those bonds. He must find how far into his court the poison had seeped, then cut it all out.

  Much of that cutting could be done at his first parliament. Forced to postpone it with Buckingham’s rebellion, the delay had been another irritant, the opening of parliament an important milestone in his reign. But Catesby was already working to rearrange it for the start of the New Year. His first parliament would now have a very specific focus: the legal destruction of his enemies. Margaret Beaufort, Elizabeth Woodville and her kin, Bishop John Morton, the leaders of the rebels – all would be dealt with.

  The door opened and Richard saw one of his messengers enter. He tensed. More bad news?

  ‘My lord king.’ The man halted with a bow by the throne and leaned in to speak quietly to him. ‘Master Reynold Glover has come from London. He says it is a matter of urgency, my lord.’

  Richard felt his stomach turn over. There could surely be only one matter that would bring Glover from the Tower. As he stood, the other men around the table rose with him, conversations dying, questions forming on their faces. Richard gestured them to sit. ‘Stay, finish your feast.’

  The king shielded his face as he followed the messenger out into the courtyard. After the muted light of the hall the dazzling afternoon sun made his eyes ache.

  Reynold Glover was waiting close by with a small company of horsemen. He came to greet him, removing his cap, his orange hair flaming like a beacon in the sunlight. Glover’s face was grim. ‘My lord.’

  ‘Is it Prince Richard?’ Richard asked at once, almost certain his youngest nephew must have succumbed to the fever.

  ‘No, my lord.’

  Richard stared at the gaoler. Glover didn’t just look grim. He looked scared. It was an odd expression on his brutish face. ‘Speak then. Tell me what the matter is.’

  ‘Prince Edward has been taken from the Tower.’

  Richard had to turn away to catch his breath. His lungs felt as though they were being crushed by some invisible force. He tried to keep the shock from his face, but he knew it was carved across it. Of all the recent black tidings – Buckingham’s betrayal, Lady Margaret’s treachery, Tudor’s escape – this was the worst.

  ‘We searched high and low, my lord. Scores of us. Two days we spent hunting. But they got clean away with him.’

  Glover continued talking, explaining what had happened. Richard caught something about a troupe of players, but he wasn’t really listening. It wasn’t the how that interested him. ‘Who else knows my nephew has escaped?’ His gaze went to the company of horsemen, mud-flecked from the ride. Once it was common knowledge his nephew was free that could add renewed strength to the rebels’ crumbling campaign. He might well be facing another attempt on his throne in a matter of weeks. He would not be able to afford a more sustained effort. Much of this insurrection had been dealt with by act of God. A prolonged war would delve deep into coffers already drained by his progress and the gifts he had lavished on his subjects to buy their loyalty.

  ‘Only the steward and a handful of the Tower guards know, my lord. The constable has not yet returned from Kent and we told the search parties the men we were hunting had stolen property and killed three of our own.’

  Richard felt the constriction in his chest ease a little. Glover had at least used his head. ‘I want it to stay that way, you understand? Every man who knows this secret must be bound to its safe keeping.’ Now the shock was subsiding he wanted to know the detail. ‘How did these men get into the Tower? You said something about a troupe?’

  ‘They had an invitation to perform on All Hallows. It seems it was secured through the constable’s deputy. He can be questioned on his return from Kent. But, my lord, I hope we may have the answers we need before that,’ Glover added quickly. He called to his men. ‘Bring him!’

  Richard watched as the company parted and two horsemen approached, dragging a wounded man between them, hands tied at the wrists. His clothes were soaked in blood, his hair matted with it.

  ‘We managed to corner several of those we believe were involved. The others escaped, but we caught this one.’ Glover spoke keenly now, wanting to show he wasn’t entirely useless. ‘He hasn’t talked, but we haven’t applied any great pressure as yet.’

  Richard stared at the injured man who was brought before him. He had a sense of recognition. The man’s face was covered in bruises an
d clots of blood, one eye swollen shut, but the terrible scar that carved his cheek looked much older than these wounds. He had seen that face before. Suddenly, the name came to him. ‘Hugh Pyke.’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘He was in Thomas Vaughan’s retinue,’ said Richard, not taking his gaze off the man, who stared back at him with eyes full of hate. The king felt a chill prickle his neck. A phantom on All Souls sent to haunt him. He licked his chapped lips. ‘Where is he, Pyke?’ he murmured. ‘Where have you taken him?’

  Pyke’s voice was so hoarse Richard had to lean closer to hear him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said,’ groaned Hugh Pyke, spitting blood. ‘Long live King Edward!’

  Richard straightened, his heart thrumming. He felt something rush through him, fury or fear, he wasn’t sure which. ‘Come. We will see what he knows.’

  Glover motioned for his men to drag Hugh with them, as he followed the king. ‘I will find the prisoner, my lord, and bring him back. On my word.’

  ‘On your blood, Master Reynold,’ Richard corrected. ‘And don’t think I won’t take it if you fail me.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘Wait here, please.’ The man rose and headed from the chamber, his fur-trimmed cloak whispering across the floor. His polished boots clicked off the tiles.

  As he closed the door behind him, Jack heard the snap of a key in the lock. He looked over at Edward, still seated on the stool in the centre of the small, dim-lit guardroom. The prince’s thin shoulders were hunched inside his dirty cloak and his fair hair hung limp around his face. He was pale, exhausted. The persistent questioning they had both just been subjected to had clearly drained the last of whatever strength he had left. He looked like a sapling crushed by a storm.

  Jack leaned against the wall, feeling his own weariness seeping through him like cold water, threatening to drag him under. There was a strong smell of fish in the room. He realised it was coming from the heavy woollen cloak he’d bought from a seller on the docks at Erith, who had given him a deal for two.

  It was ten days now since they had left Erith, on a boat carrying salt cod across the Dover Straits to the heavily fortified port of Calais. In the bustling English enclave, wedged like a splinter of stone between the Kingdom of France and the County of Flanders, they spent two nights in a harbour-side inn, before finding a London wool merchant willing to take them as far as Antwerp. From there, he assured them, it was only half a day’s walk to Mechelen, which lay beyond Flanders in the Duchy of Brabant, both part of the vast Duchy of Burgundy, annexed six years ago by the French crown after the death of Duke Charles the Bold at the Battle of Nancy.

  Huddled on a cart stuffed with sacks of wool, they had travelled on well-worn roads, crowded with mule trains and wagons carrying cloth, tin and timber through marshlands and acres of flat fields, brown and hard under clear November skies. Jack remembered the landscape well from the six months he had spent in the Low Countries with his father during King Edward’s exile. It brought back memories of a golden time, now tarnished with sorrow and disenchantment.

  On the boat from Erith he concocted false names and lives for himself and Edward in case of prying questions, but he needn’t have bothered. The wool merchant, a corpulent man with a bulbous red nose that dripped constantly, wasn’t interested in anyone’s voice but his own and it was soon clear why the man had so generously offered them a free ride and space on the floor of the inns he stayed at. Captive to his ceaseless chatter, by the end of the first day they knew all about his wife and daughters, one of whom he was keen to marry off. By the fourth they understood the wool trade and knew the gossip of each town they passed: the crook in Bruges who swindled him out of a deal, the good beer to be had in Ghent, the woman he’d taken a fancy to in Ypres.

  His inescapable company meant Jack had scant opportunity to ask the prince the questions still burning inside him. Even at night, when their companion’s prattling drifted into loud snores, there was little chance to find out what Edward might know about Thomas Vaughan. The prince’s shock after their escape from the Tower seemed to have worn off, leaving him silent and distant. He had spoken rarely; just a few barbed comments about his brother, whom he clearly resented having left behind.

  The long silences, filled with the merchant’s drone and the monotonous clop of hooves, left Jack with plenty of time to think. He thought about Grace in Lewes and his friends in London, hoping they had made it safe from the city. He thought about Henry Tudor, wondering if he had landed at Plymouth with his fleet and whether Richard would soon be staring into the eyes of defeat. He thought of his mother and her last moments at the hands of the masked giant; how scared she must have been. And he thought of the olive-skinned man, bleeding and desperate in the alley.

  It is not the map. It is those who want it. It is what they would do with it.

  Jack slept each night with his bag close by his side, his hand on the stiff leather case within. Inside, the map lay curled around itself, hiding its inked web of trouble. His dreams those nights were full of serpents and islands of gold, and men hunting him in the darkness.

  At last, they had reached the outskirts of Antwerp where the merchant waved them off and they walked five hours down to Mechelen, whose walls and turreted gateways could be seen rising from the boggy fields for miles before they reached it. Filing into the city in a stream of travellers, they had taken directions to the dowager-duchess’s palace, leading them over green canals and along wide streets, past a market square surrounded by tall painted buildings, looked down upon by a lofty cathedral tower. Jack hadn’t been here before, but he remembered his father’s descriptions of the city, which he’d spent some time in after the marriage he and Earl Rivers negotiated between King Edward’s sister, Margaret of York, and Duke Charles the Bold. The fires of torches reflected in the canals, the bridges festooned with flowers for the newly wedded couple, the tournaments and the feasts in silk pavilions.

  At the palace gates, chilled to the bone and weary beyond measure, they had found their way barred by well-dressed guards who studied them with cool suspicion. Eventually, in rusty French, thankful his father had made him learn it, Jack told them the boy was the duchess’s nephew and that unless they wanted to be responsible for a man of royal blood dying of cold and hunger before their very eyes they should escort him to her at once. The guards had wavered at this. After conversing for a few moments, one disappeared into the palace. He returned a short time later with the man in the fur-lined cloak, who, after making sure they were disarmed, had led them into this cheerless room and questioned them at length.

  ‘If my aunt will not grant us an audience, what will . . .?’

  Jack opened his eyes and looked over at the prince, but Edward let the question trail into silence. He could see the desperation etched in hard white lines across the boy’s face. He was too young to have the look of someone so hunted. ‘The duchess will see you,’ he assured him. ‘I am certain. She would not turn away her blood.’

  Edward’s features softened slightly at his confidence. He nearly smiled – a brief flicker of brightness in his pale eyes.

  It was the first time since they had fled the Tower that Jack had seen any such expression on the boy’s face. He had refrained from pressing Edward for answers about his father, even in the few moments where he’d had the opportunity. Clearly, the boy did not wish to talk and Jack didn’t want to risk alienating him further; not least because Edward might well be the future King of England. But who knew what would happen if the dowager-duchess accepted their request. The boy had a genuine claim to see her. He did not. What if they were separated? The thought spurred him to life. ‘My lord, did you ever know a man named Gregory?’

  Edward frowned at the unexpected question. After a moment, he shook his head. His eyes had clouded again, the brightness gone.

  Jack pressed on. ‘He would perhaps have been someone who knew Sir Thomas Vaughan’s business? Or was involved with him in some way?’
/>   Edward drew in his shoulders and shuddered deeply inside his cloak.

  Outside in the passage, Jack heard the faint click of boots on polished tiles. ‘Please, my lord, I need to know. It is important.’

  ‘Gregory?’ Edward looked up at him. ‘My uncle, Earl Rivers, had a squire of that name.’

  Jack felt his heart speed up, in time with those footsteps, coming closer.

  ‘Gregory Mercer,’ Edward continued, after a pause. ‘My uncle took him into his service at Ludlow, about two years ago. He wasn’t in his household often though.’

  Jack quickly described the man who had found him in Seville.

  Edward nodded. ‘That’s him.’ He started as the lock snapped and the door opened.

  The man who had questioned them appeared, flanked by two guards. ‘Come.’

  Jack walked behind Edward as they followed the three men down the passage, his mind humming with the revelation. If Gregory was working for Rivers did that mean the earl had betrayed his father, his old friend? Or was Rivers just protecting the interests of his brother-in-law, King Edward, who had ordered the Trinity missions? Who was right and who was wrong? Innocent or guilty? And with both men under the clay, how would he unearth the answer?

  The palace proper was a far cry from the dingy little room they had seen so far. The passage was wide and airy, the floors scrubbed to gleaming. Sunlight fell through the arched windows, illuminating scenes painted on the walls of rolling seas and galleys, a saintly figure holding aloft a golden cross, elaborate crests and coats of arms, all bordered by flowing trails of roses. Even the vaulted ceiling was decorated, slender ribs of stone rising at intervals to meet in ornate gilded bosses. Despite the elegance of the palace and the people they saw – guards in shining breastplates wielding halberds decorated with silver and gold ribbons, courtiers in sumptuous fashions – the whole place seemed subdued and hushed. The marble silence of a beautiful tomb.