by Robyn Young
Henry stood over a round marble table by the windows, studying the papers and rolls strewn across it. He was dressed in a floor-length black robe, tailored to fit his slim frame and trimmed with gold braid. The breeze coming through the balcony door ruffled his dark hair and lifted the corners of the papers. Despite having been in Paris for almost two months, Ned hadn’t yet laid eyes on his new commander. There were two other men with Henry, engaged in quiet conversation. One was a strapping man with greying chestnut hair and a hard gaze. Jasper Tudor, he guessed. The other, tall and thin with a neat tonsure around the bald crown of which sprouted reddish-grey hair, he recognised from his years in King Edward’s service. From the talk he’d heard among his fellow exiles, John Morton was not the only clergyman supporting Henry. The bishops of Salisbury and Exeter were also here in his company. The weight of God behind his cause.
Approaching, Ned saw several armed figures standing around the walls. He’d heard rumour that Henry Tudor slept fully clothed, with a sword beneath his mattress. Ever the fugitive. He guessed the man’s guardedness might be why it had taken so long for him to be granted a request for an audience. Henry looked up from the table, his lean face sallow in the sunlight diffused through the glass.
Ned felt an old pulse of hatred, remembering the men who had died screaming beside him, drenching him in blood drawn by Lancastrian blades. The two Tudors stood for everything he had fought against. But he forced it down like bitter medicine and made himself bow to the young man now styling himself King of England. Surely better a devil of Lancaster than the monster of York who had murdered his friends.
‘You wished to speak to me?’ Henry’s tone was curt, his French as fluid as a native’s.
‘My name is Ned Draper.’ His own French was clumsy by comparison. Ned raised his head and glanced at Jasper and Morton, whose attention was now on him. ‘Might we speak alone, my lord?’
‘These men are my trusted counsellors. You may speak in front of them.’
Ned hesitated. Valentine had disagreed with his attempts to speak to Tudor – had believed they should keep quiet about what they knew until they had the lie of the land in the camp of their former enemy. But both Ned and the Foxleys had seen it as their only hope for answers, now all other trails were cold and dead.
In London, after watching Jack and Edward disappear into the wild darkness of the Thames, Ned had hunted for Holt and the brothers, who had gone to ground. On finding them he discovered Hugh Pyke had been taken, vanished in the bowels of Newgate Prison. The next time Ned saw his friend was in the winter rain on London Bridge, his scarred and ruined head stuck on a spike and left to rot. All of them wanted men, they escaped the city and lay low for a while in Portsmouth, before fleeing the kingdom on a leaky tub of a ship carrying tin to Antwerp. In the Duchy of Burgundy they followed in Jack’s footsteps, making for Mechelen, but here they found Prince Edward’s promise of safe haven a false hope, the duchess refusing even to see them. They had searched the city for trace of Jack and the boy, and followed two false trails that led them nowhere, until at last, defeated, they had come, like all exiles with nothing left to do but fight, to the court of Henry Tudor.
Ned began to speak, admitting to Tudor his part in the attempted rescue of the sons of Edward IV, their failure and the flight from England. As he talked, Ned felt the room grow hushed and still. He noticed one of Henry’s blue eyes seemed to move of its own accord, drifting slowly, while the other remained fixed on him. When he was finished, the silence seemed to stretch for some time. Ned shifted his weight, looking between the three men.
It was Jasper Tudor who spoke first. ‘Perhaps you could not find them because the prince is dead? As everyone says.’
‘Well, everyone says his uncle killed him, sir,’ answered Ned. ‘But I know that is not true.’
‘If King Richard captured and executed your friend, Pyke, who is to say he did not find the prince before you? Perhaps Edward was taken back to the Tower to suffer the same fate?’
‘Indeed,’ said John Morton, sober-faced. ‘God rest his soul.’
‘It is possible, yes. But I saw him and Jack sail away with my own eyes. I believe they made it alive from England at least.’ Ned looked at Henry, whose expression was unreadable. ‘I had hoped they might try to make contact with you, my lord, since your mother arranged for us to be sheltered in Brittany while Richard was dealt with.’ Saying it out loud, he realised what a vain hope it sounded, but in all these fruitless months he had convinced himself that if Jack and Edward had received the same cold shoulder they themselves had been given in Burgundy they might have fallen back on the initial plan – to take the boy to Tudor. How else would they hope to survive in a foreign country, with no money or friends?
‘We have heard nothing,’ answered Jasper. ‘And unless they surface we can do nothing. For now, we must focus our efforts on that which is known: that if any of us here are to have hope of returning to our kingdom we must overthrow our enemy. We leave for Rouen within the week. You should prepare yourself for war, Master Draper. I am afraid blind hope will get you nowhere.’
‘But if the boy is alive what will . . .?’ Ned trailed off, seeing the hard expressions on the faces of the three men. He didn’t want to ask what would happen if Henry took the throne while Edward was still out there somewhere. Holt was right. He shouldn’t have come. ‘I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lords. I see, now, my hope is indeed blind.’ With a bow, he turned to go.
‘Who else have you talked to about this? About your belief the boy lives?’
Ned looked back as Henry’s cool voice rang out behind him. ‘No one.’ He said it quickly. Too quickly perhaps. He stood there waiting, feeling like a fool, until Henry turned his back on him and walked to the window, signalling that the conversation was over. Ned took the sword and bollock dagger that were handed back to him, their old worn grips reassuring in his hands. As he left the chamber he felt uneasy, as though he’d left a door open somewhere for something dark and dangerous to come slinking in.
Once the guards and servants had been ordered from the room, leaving the three of them alone, Henry turned to the others. ‘God damn it!’
‘We knew, my lord, that there were others involved in the rescue,’ Morton reminded him. ‘Those who might know the prince was taken alive.’
‘But here? Now?’ Henry flung a hand towards the table where the papers and account rolls fluttered in the breaths of wind drifting through the balcony door. ‘Just as I am preparing to bring war to the man everyone believes is their murderer?’
He bit down on his frustration, wishing he had seen Draper sooner. He had assumed, with the requests for an audience, that he was just another soldier attempting to curry favour with the man who might soon be king. How many others might Draper have spoken to?
‘He knows nothing, Henry,’ Jasper assured him. ‘That much was clear.’
‘But he believes the prince lives,’ Henry countered sharply. ‘He could tell people he saw the boy flee England alive. He could stir the hope of York – just when I need that hope behind me.’ He shook his head, planting his fists on the table.
‘The prince will soon be under your control, my lord. You can make sure any rumours of him remain just that.’
Henry thought of his mother’s plan, divulged to him when her messenger had come to rouse him to war. It had all seemed so simple; so doable. But then the storm had blown him back to Brittany, Buckingham had fallen and all their careful preparation had been thrown to the winds. He couldn’t accept any more risks to his ambition. Not now. There was a clattering sound outside, something striking the balcony. Henry tensed, turning quickly.
Jasper strode to the door, hand curled around the grip of his sword.
‘What is it?’ Henry watched his uncle bend down and pick something off the ground.
Jasper turned to look up, shielding his eyes from the sun. After a moment he headed back in. He held up a broken tile in explanation, then tossed it on the table.
‘I want you to find out who Draper came here with,’ Henry told his uncle. ‘I don’t want him speaking to anyone else of this. We need to limit the damage he could do.’ He glanced at the bishop to check his reaction. These past weeks he had come to trust and rely upon the man, but he still didn’t know him as he knew Jasper. When John Morton remained impassive, Henry nodded, then turned back to his uncle. ‘Nothing must distract our men from war. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand you, my lord.’
Jack stood in the twilight, the sultry air rustling the trees on the edges of the clearing, their branches thick with new growth. This would be his second summer in Burgundy, the only thing changing the colours of the seasons. The view might be different, but he had been here before. First Lewes, then Seville. Was he destined to live a life trapped, held suspended in time, while the world moved on without him? Was this purgatory?
Although he still thought of some things outside the forest’s borders – Grace, Ned and the others – his quest for truth about his father, about his own place in the world, had stalled. In the early days he had felt the prince knew more and that, like a puzzle to be solved, if he only asked the right questions he might find the answers, but the need to talk about anything beyond these boundaries had all but vanished. It was almost a relief. He felt inured now to the desperation, frustration and uncertainty that had tormented him since the day Gregory Mercer arrived in Seville. He had even stopped wearing his father’s caduceus ring. It lay with the map at the bottom of his broken-strapped bag, along with the prayer book from his mother and the last letter from Vaughan, its ink faded from the Thames. In a way, Jack supposed, he was right back where he started.
But, still, on evenings like this, when the air was full of warmth and promise, and dappled sunlight paved the track that led away through the tunnel of trees, he felt a tug inside and wondered what would happen if he put one foot in front of the other and walked away. Just left and never came back. This prison had no door, no lock. What was keeping him here but himself?
‘Jack?’
Edward was standing on the threshold, staring expectantly at him. Forcing a smile, Jack turned his back on the whispering woods and stepped inside, closing the door.
The lodge was filled with the smell of cooked meat. Edward had hooked the pot of rabbit stew from yesterday over the fire in the hearth. On their makeshift table, the youth had placed bowls, spoons, a jug of wine and two candles, their flames dancing in the breeze coming through the flimsy shutters. There was a criss-crossed grid carved into the surface of the table. Beside it, Edward had set out the black and white stones, plucked from the bed of a nearby stream, ready for their nightly game of merrills. As Jack sat, the prince poured out two cups of wine. Beneath the softness of Edward’s cheeks, a strong bone structure was beginning to show. His body, too, had changed over the past year, his limbs lengthening, muscles thickening. Michel had brought a sword on the last supply run and the prince and Jack had been practising fighting almost every day.
‘Set the board. I’ll stir the pot.’
As Jack began moving the stones into place, he noticed Edward had brought down the model of the castle Michel had given him late last summer. Inside the empty room at the top of one of the towers, the prince had drawn two figures on the wall, holding hands. He had smudged their faces at some point, darkening their expressions. Jack could see them through the tiny window, staring out at him. When he had first seen them he had thought they were Edward and his brother, Richard. Now, he wondered. Could the taller of the two be him? While Edward was bent over the fire, humming a ballad, Jack turned the castle so he couldn’t see the blurred figures.
There were no doors or locks needed on this prison. No matter how many times he thought it, he would never leave Edward. They were bound to one another now – two bastard boys, outcast and forgotten. They might not be sons of the same blood, but brothers was a good enough word for what they had become.
Chapter 36
Harry Vaughan crouched in the cover of the trees, staring across the clearing towards the lodge. The door was now shut, the man gone inside, but the image of him remained imprinted in Harry’s mind. It had been years, but he had never forgotten that face; so strangely familiar, like looking into a tarnished mirror. The same dark hair and strong features, an echo of their father in the set of the eyes and turn of the mouth.
From what Thomas Grey had told them and the descriptions given by John Morton, it had been suspected that the man guarding Prince Edward was James Wynter. Harry knew this was the reason Henry Tudor had chosen him for the task, clearly thinking the connection might be useful. But even with this foreknowledge he hadn’t been prepared for the sight of his half-brother – that gut-punch of recognition, all the fear and bitterness he had harboured returning.
It was in another house in the woods that Harry had first seen him, six years ago. It had been summer then too, the air baked with heat, cornfields ripening to gold. After many months absent in Ludlow, Vaughan had summoned Harry from Sir Robert’s household, claiming he wanted to visit him and his sister. Excited to hear of a tournament that was to be held in London for the king, Harry expected his father would attend and he would accompany him. They would stay in his mansion in Westminster, bet on the jousts, drink the finest wines and dance with beautiful girls at the royal feast. He had been seventeen – only a year from the age when most young men of his status were girded with the sword of knighthood.
When he returned home to their manor in Sussex, however, he found his father distant and preoccupied. Saying he had urgent business to attend to in the county, Vaughan had vowed they would go to the next royal contest together. Harry hadn’t needed more promises. He had a heartful of them, all broken. Instead, that afternoon when the man had left, he saddled one of his horses and followed him along the green skirts of the Downs to Lewes. He had known his father was a private man – a secretive man some might say. But what Harry had seen that evening, as he dismounted in the cover of the woods outside that little wooden house, had shocked him to his core.
The woman had come out first, racing from the door even as his father was tying up his mount. She had run to him laughing, barefoot and as wild as a child, even though Harry took her to be of middle years. Her hair streamed behind her as his father lifted her up, swinging her round and kissing her deeply. Harry, his mouth dry, had watched as another figure had stepped out, causing the woman and his father to break apart, laughing. The figure was a young man, maybe five or so years older than him. When Vaughan greeted him, calling his name with a grip of his shoulder and an easy smile, Harry knew at once that he was looking at his father’s son. When they had gone inside he crept to one of the windows, peeking through the gaps in the shutters as the three of them shared food, laughter and conversation.
He had always thought his father had entrusted his training to the care of old Sir Robert because of his duty to Prince Edward. Harry had consoled himself with the knowledge that his father’s relationship to the future king – which would no doubt yield more titles and estates – would one day benefit him. He hadn’t considered that there might be another, more objectionable reason for his father’s long absences and lack of attention. Now, the truth was before him – plain in the face of the young man sitting with Vaughan at dinner – a cuckoo raised by his father at the expense of his own brood.
Not able to bear watching them any longer, Harry had fled, kicking his horse savagely into the evening. It wasn’t just that his father had lied to him all his life or that there was another son – another family – out there, stealing his time and affection. It was the terror that he could lose the inheritance that, until that moment, he had believed would be his. Inheritance was a promise for the eldest son. The young man might be illegitimate, but a bastard child could be legitimised by an Act of parliament and given their father’s high status in court such a thing was not implausible. From that day forth, Harry had never felt safe or secure again.
; ‘Do we go in?’
Harry looked round. The four Welsh soldiers Henry had sent him with from Paris were hunkered in the undergrowth behind him. The one who had spoken was a hunch-shouldered brute called Rhys with a pox-pitted face. The soldiers knew only that they were here to secure two men wanted for questioning by their master. They had no idea that one was Prince Edward. Only Harry had been trusted with that knowledge.
‘We wait another hour,’ he told Rhys. ‘They’ll no doubt be softened by food and wine.’
As he looked back at the lodge, Harry flexed his fingers, realising his hands had curled into fists. By a cruel turn of fate he had lost his inheritance, although not in the way he feared he might. But Henry Tudor had promised to restore him if he succeeded in his task. Tonight, he would make certain that James Wynter would never stand in his way again.
A jug of wine and four cups clutched in his hands, Ned climbed the steep stairs to their lodgings at the top of an inn trapped between a hatter and a mercer in the narrow streets that spun a tight web around the Île de la Cité. The palace and the Louvre were already crowded with Englishmen, waiting for the march north to Rouen, and they had been forced to secure their own accommodation. It had suited Ned fine. Wine and women flowed freely in this establishment.
Hands full, he kicked at the door to their room and waited, listening to Titan’s barks, until Adam Foxley opened it. Ned entered, ducking the low lintel. The chamber was cramped and smelly, two pallets covered with straw and coarse blankets for their beds, the odours of unwashed bodies and the garderobe next door mingling with the reek of the Seine that seeped through the open shutters.