“Let go of her at once. The impertinence.”
He jumped back, letting go of Jane as he clutched his arm; giving Alice the shocked, sick look of a child caught misbehaving by its nurse. “And don’t you look at me like that either,” the silkwoman continued forbiddingly, raising her voice further and putting her own arm protectively through Jane’s. Her women—there must have been twelve or more of them by now, and there were more coming, both from Anne Pratte’s house and the nearby Royal Wardrobe—were directing withering looks at the men- at-arms they’d surrounded. The soldiers were scuffing their feet and looking down. Alice Claver rapped out: “We were watching you from over the road. We could see exactly what you were up to, so don’t bother denying it. I don’t know what made you take it into your head that it would be all right to parade round the City of London with this gang of hoodlums, terrorizing whoever takes your fancy, but let me tell you it’s not. You’re breaking the law.”
Jane felt almost sorry for him. “No,” he whimpered, feeling for his purse. “You don’t understand . . . I’ve got an order from the Lord Protector . . . here . . .”
Alice Claver folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to see your piece of paper,” she said sternly. “You know as well as I do that we don’t allow bandit behavior in the City of London. If you want to make an arrest here, you have to do it by the book.
Go to the Guildhall. Ask them to send out a troop of the watch.
They’ll make your arrest for you if your papers are right. You can’t just start walking our streets, picking people up and taking them off to God knows where. This good lady”—she gestured splendidly at Jane—“is a Freewoman of the City of London. Like us. She has her rights. We all do.” She stuck her nose pugnaciously out. She was nearly as tall as him, and twice as broad. “And don’t you forget it.”
Weakly, Sir Thomas nodded his head.
“Now,” Alice Claver finished up, scarcely drawing breath, keeping the initiative: “I think we’d better make sure you don’t make any more mistakes. Come on,” she jerked her finger toward the Guildhall. “We’ll take you there. It’s just round the corner.”
The women worried the men- at- arms forward, like dogs snapping at the heels of sheep, until it seemed to everyone that it was Sir Thomas Howard’s troop that was under arrest rather than Jane. Jane, so stunned by now that all she could do was stare and watch events and feet move forward, found herself flanked by Alice Claver and small, white- haired Anne Pratte. Alice Claver kept waving her stick longingly in the direction of Thomas Howard, just in front of them, as if keen to whack him again on the arm or leg.
Anne Pratte, meanwhile, was whispering advice to Jane.
“They’ll have to shut you up if he’s really got an order,” she muttered. “But only in a proper city prison. And don’t forget, as a Freewoman you get to choose which one.” Jane nodded blankly.
“Are you taking this in, dear?” Anne Pratte said, more sharply, then took both Jane’s hands in hers, squeezed them until Jane’s eyes focused, and hissed: “Ask for Ludgate Prison!”
Which was how Jane came to be locked, not in a festering dungeon somewhere underground, but in a light, bare room over Ludgate, with the traffic that clattered in and out of the City through the western gate passing directly under her floor. Her cell was built into the stone city wall on one side, but it had wooden walls on the other sides. It had a big window through which she could look down over the people coming in and walking up Ludgate Hill. She could see all the way to St. Paul’s. There was a thin rope attached to a hook by the window, which she could let down, so visitors who came and stood below and shouted to get her attention could reach for the swinging end and tie a bag of food onto it for her to haul up and eat, and she could let down her laundry for her friends to wash.
“Don’t you worry,” Anne Pratte said encouragingly, a small figure below, after she’d made Jane winch up a bottle of beer and some bread in a bag. “We’ll be back.”
Jane watched that purposeful little back disappear up the hill and into the crowd. She didn’t open the bag. She didn’t do anything. It was as if she’d forgotten how. She just went on sitting, stiller than she’d ever have thought possible, looking out but not noticing the sunlight on the cathedral tower turn a richer gold, then deep red.
Isabel clip-clopped along the road to Westminster alone, in a dream so sweet that she was only vaguely aware of the dozens of soldiers out this morning, pacing one arm span apart through the fields of tall young corn as far as the eye could see, leaving trampled trails of bleeding green behind; of the dogs sniff -ing and barking on their leashes. All she really saw was her interior vision of the room where she’d spent yesterday afternoon, cool and empty of everything except Dickon and the rumpled bed. She could still smell him on her. Anything being done out here, in the reality of this hot summer’s morning, might as well not be happening. But she had to go to the princess. They’d have delivered the coronation robe to her in sanctuary now. The princess had asked for a fitting.
It was only when she got to the abbot’s house that the trails of glory began to dissipate.
There were twice as many soldiers as usual at the door: cold, unfamiliar faces. The whispers she heard, from behind her back, were in the harsh language of the North. She thought she could hear weeping through the open windows. She strained her ears when she got inside, but there was none of the usual bustle of a big house hold; just whispers and an uncanny silence. When Lady Elizabeth Darcey was called to see Isabel in, she saw the noblewoman’s long and usually controlled face was twitching and patchy with red, her eyes swollen. “You!” she said in uncontrollable surprise at the sight of Isabel, which was odd because Isabel had been supposed to come at this time. Lady Darcey stammered: “I didn’t think . . . well, I suppose there’s no harm . . . ,” but before leading Isabel into the sewing parlor she drew her aside and added, “but you should know: their Highnesses are . . . His Highness Prince Richard has gone . . . ,” and, to Isabel’s astonishment, the other woman’s face twisted into the beginning of a sob.
Daringly, Isabel put a hand on Lady Elizabeth’s arm and was rewarded with a sudden, grateful look as Lady Elizabeth swallowed and recomposed her face. They stood like that for a minute, as if the noblewoman was furtively drawing comfort from her warm hand. Then Lady Elizabeth moved just out of her reach.
“Her Highness will be pleased to see you,” she said, almost back to her brittle usual self, “Come,” and darted off down the corridor so fast that Isabel almost had to run to keep up.
The princesses had all been crying.
The eyes Elizabeth turned on Isabel were so red and puff y she could hardly see out. There wasn’t even a trace of coldness in her today. She and her sisters pulled Isabel to the table and sat her down as if she were one of them. Elizabeth whispered the story.
The Duke of Buckingham had just been, with Lord Howard, Archbishop Bourchier of Canterbury, and the Lord Chancellor, Bishop Russell. They’d scared Queen Elizabeth Woodville into giving up her younger son. They said little Richard, the Duke of York, should be with his brother Edward, who was moving into the state apartments in the Tower ahead of the coronation. Edward would be bored on his own. They gave Queen Elizabeth Woodville a moment to say her good- byes. Then they took him away.
“They had such frightening eyes,” one of the little girls said numbly. It set the others off .
“My mother says they hate us.”
“My brother was crying. He tried not to but we heard him all the way down the corridor.”
“He didn’t even take his game.”
Helplessly, Isabel patted small hands and shoulders and looked at the polished knucklebones they were showing her, the game Richard had left behind. The lords who had come were all Dickon’s men, and she knew them to be as loyal to him as Lord Hastings. They would mean the little boy no harm, any more than Dickon did. But she could so easily imagine how their intent faces and hurried demeanor would have terrified the ch
ildren.
She murmured: “You poor things,” and, “I can see you were scared.” They nodded earnestly, fixed eyes as round as red platters on her. Gently, she added, “But, you know, they’re right. Edward would be lonely if he didn’t have anyone to play with.”
They looked uncertain.
“Why can’t we see Edward here?” one of the little redheads asked. “Why won’t they let him come to us?”
“My mother says our uncle Gloucester has taken him prisoner.”
“And now Richard too.”
“She says we’ll never see either of them again.”
“And our uncle Dorset has gone away too.”
“He’s our half brother really; but we call him uncle.”
“And Brigid’s nurse says she’s heard they’re going to execute our other Woodville uncles today.”
“In Pontefract.”
“And then they’ll come to get us.”
“And murder us in our beds.”
Little Brigid, who’d been doing her best to follow the conversation, understood that perfectly. She burst into loud wails. The others just stared at her. They weren’t used to looking after themselves or each other. Where was the nurse? Isabel wondered. Finally, reluctantly—what could she be expected to know about babies?—she picked the weeping child up herself and sat her on her knee. Brigid burrowed at her ribs, still sobbing.
“Hush now,” Isabel said, trying to sound soothing, but suddenly rattled herself. “Hush.”
She thought: It’s all their mother’s fault. Of course Queen Elizabeth Woodville would feel frightened and alone. But, she thought, it was still wrong for the self- made queen to make assumptions that everyone else was motivated by the same greedy thoughts she would probably have had herself if she’d been in Dickon’s position. And it was wrong to terrify her children with these nightmarish expectations.
Blaming the queen calmed Isabel down. Once the little girl’s sobs had faded to sniffles, Isabel told her, kindly but firmly, “It’s only because you’re here that you can’t see your brother. He’s got to stay in London in the king’s apartments now he’s king. Your mother’s been just as scared as you, and while we didn’t know where he was she thought coming here was the best way to keep you safe. That was a wise thing for her to think. But it’s all over now. We know Edward’s safe. There’s no reason for you to be scared anymore. Your mother will see that soon enough. And then you’ll be out too, and at the palace again, and going with Richard to see Edward crowned king.”
She was talking to Brigid, but all the princesses were hanging on her words. She thought their panic was ebbing. She noticed Elizabeth look down for a second when she spoke of Edward’s coronation. There was a flash of what Isabel thought might be envy in her eyes—but that was positive, too, she thought; a sign of normal feelings returning.
There was someone hiding in the silk house.
Isabel knew as soon as she let herself in, to check briefly on its state, brushing through the waist- high cow parsley at her door. It was shut up and cobwebby. Will Caxton’s maid couldn’t have been here since the unrest started. But there was a table inside already; two benches; buckets and brooms and bowls in the kitchen, ready for the new inhabitants; and, in the workroom, the half- assembled pieces of loom propped up all along the inner wall, covered in sacking. She knew there were piles of mattresses and blankets upstairs—the basics, ready for Goffredo’s teams. All she could hear was the two flies buzzing peaceably backward and forward near the dark window. But she could feel the breathing.
“Who’s there?” she called, with her heart thumping and flesh creeping. The quality of the silence changed. If there was someone there, they must be listening.
For a moment she wondered whether to run to Will’s house and get backup. Then she steeled herself. She wasn’t going to let them know she was scared of shadows. She might be imagining it. Leaving the front door open, she walked very quickly into the kitchen.
The back door to the yard was open too. There was a man in the shadow behind it. He was tall but very quiet, sweating in a dark cloak; ready for flight if her voice meant enemies. He was so still.
It was Dorset.
She stopped dead.
He’d shoved his hands inside her gown once. Sneering and forcing his mouth on hers. She didn’t want to be alone with him.
She wouldn’t easily forget the insult in his eyes.
But there was only fear in his eyes now.
“Are you alone?” he whispered, from the safety of his doorway. She nodded, from hers.
“What are you doing here?” she muttered. “In my house?”
He must have realized at last that she thought he might be going to try again to tumble her. He shut his eyes, snorted: “Ach. Not that. ” Then, cunningly, as if realizing an attempt at charm would be politic in these circumstances, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She waited, watching him carefully. Keeping her distance.
But she remembered now. One of the little princesses had said her uncle Dorset had gone. She should have paid more attention.
If he’d run away from sanctuary, he’d be fair game for anyone trying to arrest him. And Dickon’s lords had been with the queen today, taking the boy. They must have realized he’d gone. There’d been soldiers with northern voices and dogs trampling through the cornfields round Westminster by mid- morning. She understood now. They were hunting the Woodville marquess down.
They wanted to kill him.
“I’m in danger,” he said. “You’ve got to help me.”
“How did you find me?” she countered suspiciously. “Here?”
No one knew about this house. Did they?
“Jane said . . . ,” Dorset replied, rumpling boyish hair, giving her his most appealing look.
Her eyes narrowed. Jane. How dare she?
“. . . that if I ever needed to get a message to her urgently to give it to Will Caxton, for you to take back to London. She said you had a house nearby. I asked. And some German artisan said it was this one.”
She breathed out.
“But why are you still here?” she asked, still coldly but with calm returning. “Why didn’t you just give Caxton your message and go?”
His handsome mouth curled briefly in a how- can- you- be- so-stupid sneer. Then, remembering where he was and why he was here, he blanked his face again.
“Because I heard the crier,” he said in a very patient voice.
And he added, staring into her eyes as if trying to suck knowledge out of her: “Is Jane safe?”
“Jane?” she said stupidly.
“You didn’t hear the herald, did you,” he said—not a question.
He shook his head. She shook hers. There was a pause. She could see he didn’t know how to frame what ever it was he needed to tell her.
There was a bugle blast from the Red Pale out in front of the house. He looked terrified again for a second, then his face cleared.
“There,” he said quietly. “He’s come here. Listen for yourself.”
He took her by the arm—she hardly even shuddered at his touch anymore; she recognized that something altogether different from her memory of this man was happening today—and led her toward the noise. They stood just inside the closed shutters, hidden from the listeners coming out of their houses all around.
The proclamation had begun, but it took Isabel a while to make sense of it. The man’s voice seemed to be saying that Lord Hastings had plotted to kill the dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham and seize the king. It seemed to be saying that Lord Hastings had led the late King Edward IV into debauchery.
And it was saying, very clearly now, that Mistress Shore, with whom Lord Hastings lay by night, was of his secret counsel in heinous treason. The iron band was tightening on Isabel’s gut.
She could hardly breathe.
“Ungracious living brought him to an unhappy end,” the voice shouted. The horn blew another flamboyant fanfare. Hooves moved off . They could hear the un
certain ripple of conversation from the listeners.
Dorset whispered: “You see. They must have killed him. So what have they done to her?”
She bowed her head. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t believe this. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. But when he said, impatiently, “Gloucester is seizing power,” she only nodded. She knew that too, really. Dickon had raised his game. Nothing else made sense.
There was nothing for it but to help Dorset get to London.
She couldn’t leave him.
Her mind was racing now, uselessly, since she knew she had to stifle all thoughts but a list of her most immediate needs. She borrowed a stained work smock and half a dozen copies of Earl Rivers’s curial from Will Caxton’s workshop—the foreign foreman didn’t seem to mind, just nodded when she smiled and waved and said, slowly enough for him to understand, that she’d return everything tomorrow. She dirtied the Woodville marquess’s handsome face and made him grime up his clean fingernails.
Luckily he too had the wordless urgency of a man who will do what ever is needed, at once, to save himself. She put his expensive cloak and his sword in a big rough sack on her saddle; put herself up on her horse and tried not to heed her pounding heartbeat as they set out. She got Dorset to bow his head and put the books under one arm. “You’re a German printer; you don’t speak English,” was all she said to him, and he nodded obediently. She got him to lead her, on foot, out of the gate, past the sweating soldiers in the fields, past the dogs, along the riverside strand, past the bishops’ fortresses, along the caked mud of Fleet Street, to London. She tried to think of nothing more alarming than the birds 2 fluttering up from the battered fields, the white fleece scudding along overhead. A part of her felt safe enough; after all, she’d spent a year walking the familiar streets of the Mercery unrecognized by all the grand mercers she’d grown up among, just because she’d started wearing the humble drab of the district’s poor throwsters and shepsters. Dorset’s disguise was working just as well now. No one looked at them, even Davey at the Westminster gate, who’d averted his eyes as studiously as if she’d become the vilest of lepers. No one was interested in the dirty, broken silhouette that Dorset had become. Still, she’d never been so happy to see the Fleet Bridge and Ludgate looming up ahead. Every jolt of horse flesh under her, every breath she’d taken, had reminded her of how tight her jaw was clenched, how tense her arms and back.
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