Deighton—the name stirred a memory. I thought back to a journey to Barnard when Miles and I first married and our fateful halt at the Greyhound Tavern. A long history lay between Miles and this Deighton.
“Did Jack ever take messages to the Tower?”
“Oh yes. He had letters from the king for Sir Robert Brackenbury, the Constable.”
“Do you remember my husband, Miles? He’s at the Tower with the late king’s son. Did you ever see him?”
“Ah, those poor boys!” Emma turned huge, frightened eyes upon me. “Jack said Lord Edward was sick with the toothache and was a miserable boy, always complaining—too lazy even to dress himself. But the other one—Lord Richard—he’s a merry little lad.”
“Lord Richard’s with his brother?”
“Of course.” Emma looked at me as if I were a simpleton. “Jack fetched him from the Sanctuary.”
Jack Green again—How many cunning tricks had he played?
But how could Elizabeth Wydeville part with her boy? Hadn’t I begged her not to send him to the Tower? Mara’s words returned to taunt me—“The widow rejects your service.” But why? Even the king said she believed me. What had Richard of Gloucester promised her? “She who sows tears will harvest sorrow.” Mara told me that, too. Elizabeth Wydeville ordered the murder of the Desmond boys—I remembered her saying “They’re dead these ten years.” Would she now reap her own sorrow?
Harry crouched before Emma, speaking slowly as if addressing a child. “Did Jack take Dickon with him when he left you?”
She nodded, rubbing tears from her face.
“And do you know where Jack is now?”
“I’ve not seen him in weeks.” She began to weep copiously. “But he’ll be at Tyrell’s.”
Emma proved right. But Jack Green clearly expected us. The girl, though promised work and lodgings, had sneaked off during the night to warn her erstwhile lover. How could I blame her? Love made me weak and foolish, too.
“Mistress Forrest,” Jack Green greeted me with an obsequious smile as we rode into the courtyard of Tyrell’s fine manor-house. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
“What have you done with Dickon?”
If Rob hadn’t held me firmly, I think I’d have torn at Master Green’s impudent face. As it was, Harry put a dagger to the knave’s throat and gripped him firmly with the other hand.
“Tell us where the boy is and I won’t harm you. But if you’ve hurt him, then by St Peter, I’ll see you hanged.”
“I think not, Master Mercer.” Green raised his brow to indicate men in the king’s livery. They appeared from the house to encircle us in silent menace. “You see, I have the king’s protection. Besides, your fears are groundless.” He gifted me his old, weasel-smile. “Where else would the lad be, but with his father?”
“With Miles?” Bewildered, I looked from Jack to Harry and then back to Rob.
“Aye,” said the detested voice, with the merest chuckle of amusement. “The lad helped me persuade his father to perform a little service for the king. Miles can be difficult sometimes. As a reward, Miles now has Dickon in his keeping. I took him myself, early this morning.”
With Rob’s help, I leapt back into the saddle and turned my horse.
“What?” called Jack Green. “No thank you for my pains? Don’t you want to hear how your old priest screamed and soiled himself when he was tortured, Mistress Forrest?”
He was laughing as we rode away.
Chapter Eighty-One
At Baynard’s Castle they greeted us with open hostility.
“Miles Forrest hasn’t been here in a long time.” One of the officers wearing the badge of the dowager Duchess of York eyed me insolently. “King Richard made him rich—though what services he demanded for this favour I’m sure you can guess.” He spat contempt. “Our Dick can be generous when it suits him! Forrest thought himself too grand for the likes of us. I’ve no idea where he’s living now.”
Leaving Rob to make enquiries in the nearby taverns, Harrry took me to Maud’s shop in the Chepe.
Overwhelmed by her effusive welcome, we’d a hard time getting her to listen to our questions. Crushing me to her voluptuous bosom, she prattled admiringly of my changed fortunes, until Harry interrupted urging haste, and began interrogating her about the princes in the Tower.
As she related her store of news, her raddled handsome face grew graver. She assumed an awed voice, as if afraid to tell us the worst. Finally she leaned close. “Then last Easter, when we heard the little Middleham prince was dead, all the old stories started up—grimmer than ever, and by July a nasty rumour told how the king had decided to get rid of those Wydeville boys because he felt unsafe—”
“And did you hear anything of a Master Forrest?” Harry’s homely face grew sombre.
“I heard the name once or twice.” She gave me a wary look.
“My husband’s disappeared.”
Lowering her voice, she drew me aside, for a huddle of curious women had gathered in the street. “They said someone was hired to put those lads away—and the name Forrest was mentioned.” The expression in her eyes shook me with horror. Was I already too late?
“I don’t want to listen to crazy talk! I just need to find Miles and Dickon!”
My outburst shocked everyone. Stunned by the unexpected flood of tears which followed, Maud stretched out her arms, gasping in astonishment when I shook off this attempted embrace.
With a sympathetic nod to Maud, a patient Harry wrapped his arm about my shoulders and steered me away. “Don’t let Maud’s tittle-tattle disturb you. You know how she loves to exaggerate.”
Turning briefly to where the bewildered gossip stood watching us, he waved a jaunty farewell. “Tomorrow, unless Rob has any other news, you must accompany me on my morning bread delivery to the Tower. I’ve a feeling your Miles may still be there—and where he is, we’ll surely find Dickon.” Although designed to cheer, his words didn’t fool me. I knew Harry too well. His whole presence oozed anxiety. “We should have questioned that knave, Green, while we had a chance,” he muttered. “By the Rood, Nan, I wish I’d cut that smirk from off his face!”
* * * * *
In the steamy gloom just before dawn the huge, white-faced fortress of the Tower crouched like a beast waiting to devour the unwary. Its turrets rose tall and ominous against a cobalt skyline. Mist silenced the river traffic. Sultry heat clung about the fabric of the buildings, stifling the city’s noise. Inside this terrible place, if my dreams spoke true, wicked shadows lurked and cries of pain echoed among its chill, damp passageways.
Time to confront the scene of my old nightmares, I thought, steeling myself to enter the notorious prison. Yet hadn’t I travelled since childhood to seek it out? Brother Brian’s haggard face flashed across my mind, his troubled eyes full of pity. What dreadful secrets did it hide? Did the Wydeville princes lie sleeping beyond those thick, stone walls? And was my own boy there with his father?
“Maud told me everyone watched the princes playing on the green in front of the Garden Tower,” said Harry, his voice low and hushed. “They liked to shoot at the butts or fight mock battles—”
“But she told me by Christmas people saw them less and less, and in the new year not at all,” I answered in a whisper.
Carrying a weighty basket of bread on my hip, I followed him across the great stone bridge towards the gates I’d studied as a child. Guards armed with pikes loomed ahead, and I recalled Aunt Grace telling me these men lived in the Tower buildings. How could they sleep in such a place?
“I always deliver here at first light.” Harry feigned a cheery tone. He hoisted his basket higher on his shoulder. “It’s brought us good business—this place. I’ve got to know some of the guards. They’re a friendly bunch. They’ll all know Master Forrest here.”
Jesting about his new helper, the guards greeted Harry. “I prefer this dainty wench to that hulking rogue who normally accompanies you,” said one, sparking a score of ribal
d comments.
“Colin’s a sore head this morning,” answered Harry. “I thought you’d appreciate meeting my cousin. Sadly, though she’s spoken for, my lads! Her husband works here— you’ll surely know him—attendant to the Lords Bastard.”
“What name?” A bold-faced guard tore a chunk off one of the loaves and chewed it greedily, spitting crumbs.
“Forrest—Miles Forrest.”
“Wasn’t he in the Garden Tower?” asked the fellow of his companions, mouth full of new bread.
One pointed to the tall building, whose lofty walls featured in my worst visions. My heart quickened with foreboding.
“I’ll take you,” he said.
Relieved of our baskets, we followed him. Pushing open a heavy, timber door, he indicated a gloomy stairwell and gestured upward.
“Top floor.” He tipped Harry a knowing wink. “If you plan on bringing the lads out for a bit of fresh air, I’ll not disturb you. I’ve a desperate hunger on me and it’s breakfast time.” He looked at me with some sympathy then. “There’s been a deal of noise up there since before light. Sounded as if they were moving furniture, but it’s not my business to ask. I wish you success with your venture.”
He closed the outer door and immediately, a stifling darkness dropped upon us like a mantle. Sconces on the walls belched oily vapour as we climbed.
Passing closed doors, I trembled at the memory of my dreams, wondering what secrets these locked chambers kept. A sour stench of urine and decay leached from the clammy walls. Slimy water swamped the stairs. Pressing my cloak over my mouth against the noxious reek, I recoiled from the scuttle and slither of scaly feet and tails. An evil miasma wreathed from the river and the ancient malevolence of the place gathered about us like great feathered wings. A penetrating cold gnawed my bones.
Further up, the serpentine steps narrowed ominously and the pall of darkness thickened. Choked by the weight of it, we moved laboriously, our footsteps the merest sigh upon the steps.
At the top a heavy silence brooded.
Gripped by a sickening spinning sensation, I recognised the timber and iron-bossed door which lay before me. It stood ajar, revealing a coil of inky black that smoked inward.
Clenching my teeth, I pushed it wide.
“Who’s there?”
A torch flared suddenly, lighting up the chamber, stinging my eyes. Several liveried men, illuminated like imps in its flame, set down a heavy, carved chest. Beyond them, the chamber stood bare save for a bed stripped of its hangings and ashes in the fire-place.
“What do you want here?” asked the torch bearer, while the others squatted, panting from their exertions.
“We’re looking for Master Forrest,” Harry said from behind me. “He’s attendant to the Lords Bastard.”
“Gone,” gasped one of the others.
“The boys were sent north to train as knights.” A portly fellow with a broom offered this information while the others murmured and stretched their aching muscles.
“All the attendants were dismissed weeks ago,” said the torch bearer.
“Black Will went last year,” said another voice, choked by coughing.
“Forrest and Deighton were the last.” The portly fellow sank down on the chest, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve.
“Could they have been sent with the lads?” asked Harry.
The portly fellow nodded gravely. “Very like—their uncle’s sent them to Middleham where he trained under Warwick as a boy.”
“Was there another little boy with them?”
All the men looked at me then with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
“Only the Wydeville lads were here,” the portly fellow replied, his tone uneasy. “But sometimes visitors came—once a bishop—”
“Stillington?”
Bemused by my interruption, the men shrugged and began muttering together.
“Someone said the king came to see them,” offered the torch-bearer.
The man on the chest laughed sardonically. “I doubt it. This part of the Tower’s a forgotten place. And the king wanted to forget about those lads.”
“Are you well, Mistress? You look pale.” The torch-bearer grabbed Harry’s arm. “Best get her outside, sir, into the air. She’s probably heard some wicked tales of this place. The wenches are always fainting when they come here.”
* * * * *
Outside, Rob waited with the horses as arranged. He showed no surprise when we told him the princes had gone. A grim expression distorted his usually pleasant face.
“There’s a tale they’ve moved to Middleham,” said Harry. “And Master Forrest with them.”
With a brusque shake of his head, Rob urged us to mount. Harry glanced at his closed expression with curiosity. “Where to now?”
“Lombard Street,” Rob answered curtly. “Master Forrest’s lodging there. I had the information from that knave, Jack Green.”
Chapter Eighty-Two
I never discovered how Rob got his information. He showed no inclination for talk either then or afterward. But tension made us all taciturn.
The fine house to which he took us stood in an area of the city where wealthy merchants lodged. Leaving Harry to hold the horses, Rob hammered on the door. A spindly lad of about thirteen, in a fine blue and murrey livery, opened it. He looked as if he was used to such rude summons.
“Master Forrest?”
“Aye, inside. Who—?”
“His wife and cousins.” Harry pushed him aside. “Take our horses.”
Inside candles blazed, gilding opulent furnishings. In spite of the warm day, a huge fire leaped within the hearth, and there, before it, sat Dickon, like a miser relishing the comfort of his gold.
I flung myself upon the child, pressing his body against mine, covering him with kisses and babbling endearments. He didn’t respond. Stiff and unyielding in my arms, he stared at me with such cruel indifference I thought my heart would break.
“Sweet Jesu! What have they done to you?”
I noted then discarded bottles and goblets strewn amongst the rushes, but I didn’t need these to tell me Miles was drunk. His tall, dishevelled figure wavered before us, clearly stunned by our unexpected arrival.
“Nan.” His voice slurred, drowsy with ale and disbelief. “I prayed for you to find me.” In the flickering candle-light his face gleamed gaunt and wolfish, the black hair standing in spikes like raised hackles. His eyes burned from dark hollows. Hugging me close, he murmured incoherent words into my hair.
“Miles, we must leave at once.” I struggled from his ferocious grasp. “Harry and Rob have come to take us back to Bread Street.”
Stupidly, Miles watched the servant lad collecting his belongings together.
“All’s paid for, sir,” said this youngling, when Harry offered money. But he gladly took the generous coins we left on parting.
Dickon rode with Harry. Stony-faced and silent, he kept his head turned from me though he drooped in the saddle.
“He’s almost asleep,” Harry said. “He’s obviously had little rest in days. I’m sure he’ll be a different boy when he’s slept. It’s the shock of seeing you again—God knows what he’s been used to with that villain, Green—”
But to me it seemed an eternity before my child would even look in my direction.
* * * * *
Early next day, Harry dispatched a reluctant Rob to Middleham. As rosy light painted the far horizon we watched him ride off through the city gates in a cloud of dust.
“There’ve been so many rumours about the Wydeville boys—that they’ve been sent to Sheriff Hutton with the king’s bastard son, John, or shipped to Flanders—It’s hard to know what to think—” Harry’s voice trailed in embarrassment.
In silence we threaded our way back to the bake-house through the barely wakened streets, with the clatter of opening shutters, the roll of barrels, the creak of cart-wheels assaulting our ears. We passed a sleepy lad with a mangy cur on a rope, a drab in a frowsty kir
tle, a stocky fellow carrying wood, as if we trod a dreamscape. An unspoken horror lay between us and at every step, the burden of it grew heavier on me.
As always, the house smelled fragrant with new bread. Down in the bake-house Will sang as he hauled a second batch of loaves from the ovens. In the shop, a yawning Marian drew up the shutters and Meg looked up from stacking pastries on the shelf to speak to Harry.
Entering the kitchen, I caught Margaret Mercer’s eye and opened my mouth to spill the worst of my fears, but little Hal, his hair still rumpled from sleep, chose this moment to paddle in.
A relief, almost audible as a sigh, pervaded the kitchen.
Dickon, who’d slept in Hal’s bed-chamber, followed warily, quite different from the lively, mischievous boy of Middleham.
“I suppose you boys want some oatmeal?” Margaret Mercer said, lifting Hal onto a stool by the table.
Ignoring me, Dickon’s mouth widened in a smile and he ran to her at once.
Watching him playing chess with Hal and Nancy on the hearth while I washed dishes reminded me poignantly of Ned of Middleham whose skill at this game had so impressed his mother.
When Harry carried off Hal and Nancy went to help in the shop, Dickon climbed on the settle, swinging his legs back and forth, deliberately kicking over the chess pieces, his face a mask of sullen frustration.
“Stop that!” I cried, irked by this petulance and conscious of Mistress Mercer’s reproving stare. “If you’re tired of play, put away your toys.”
Scowling, he gathered up the chessmen. When he began rearranging them in some private game of his own, Margaret Mercer, putting dishes in the press, turned to give me a nudge. Accepting this encouragement to win the child’s confidence, I knelt to join him as he put some of the pieces into two little wooden carts Harry had made.
“That’s the Duke of Buckingham going to his execution.” He pointed to one of the carts which contained a single knight. “Here’s the king and his henchmen coming to watch.” The other cart held, indeed, the king and several pawns. This grisly example of the child’s imagination sent shivers down my spine.
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