by Amy Licence
Into the arena before them came armed knights, each bearing the colours of their house. Visors raised, they bowed low to the pavilion and awaited the duke’s command. York raised his arm and for a moment they waited, suspended before action, on the verge of life or death. Then the duke gave the signal and they sprang to arms, writhing in a mêlée of flashing steel. At once Edward was transfixed. Two large figures, locked in combat, drew his eye for a while, then his gaze fell upon the other men, struggling to defend or attack. There was one knight in particular who caught his eye, dressed brightly in yellow and white, fighting manfully at the edge of the group. With sword in hand, the plucky little figure defended himself against a brute of an opponent, almost twice his size, without seeming to tire. To Edward, he seemed to embody the spirit of optimism.
‘This is the best training for the battlefield,’ said his father at his side. ‘Watch them closely. See why they fail and where they succeed. Size and strength count for much but they are not everything.’
The small white and yellow figure lunged forward again, thrusting with his sword, driving his opponent back.
‘See that?’ noticed York. ‘See how he holds the sword, hands apart for control, hands closer together for might.’
Edward nodded. ‘He’s the best of all the fighters, isn’t he?’
‘What makes him the best? The best can change. Is it speed, skill, strength?’
‘Or simply fortune?’ added Edmund from the other side, with a flash of insight.
They watched, rooting for his success, willing him strength and energy, as the little knight gained the upper hand. Once he stumbled and almost fell, before quickly righting himself again.
Edward broke out in applause, pleased to see the man’s spirit. Momentarily, the figure paused and turned to the platform with a brief acknowledgement of the encouragement.
The throng of men broke apart and charged together again. The little knight braced himself for conflict, allowing the brunt of the impact to fall upon his flank before he began his counter-attack.
‘You see his manoeuvre there?’ asked York, leaning in closer to his elder son. ‘It takes thought and cunning. You have to be three steps ahead of your enemy and predict where he will be. See, look, that lets him parry the blow without exposing his body, then he can turn and strike on the other side.’
Edward watched, seeing the brave knight move boldly through the mêlée.
‘But he is vulnerable on the other side.’
‘Yes,’ York nodded. ‘He has moved too far ahead. Watch though, see how he keeps turning so he is always the same distance from the enemy. But he had better watch his back!’
A large knight in black came bearing down on the jaunty figure from behind. Edward flinched as the smaller combatant went sprawling on the ground.
York tutted. ‘He let down his guard. He looked scared for a moment and that’s deadly. Once you’re down, you’re down.’
‘But he’ll get up!’ insisted Edward.
‘If he can. That armour is heavy. He made the mistake of being intimidated by the other man’s size. Even if you’re tiny, it is all about using your brains.’
‘But it wasn’t fair. The black knight came upon him from behind!’
York shook his head. ‘Who ever said battles were fair?’
Edward gasped. The black knight had brought down his sword hard upon the yellow and white back, almost completely severing an arm. Blood appeared on the sawdust.
York rose to his feet at once and gestured, his voice carrying through the air. ‘Enough, carry the man away.’
The fighters ceased for the moment to allow the injured knight to be borne aloft from the field. York turned to resume his seat and saw the conflicting emotion on his son’s face.
‘He will be well, never fear. A surgeon awaits him.’
But Edward was stilled by the brute victory of might over skill, contemplating its implications.
York turned to his second son. ‘And you Edmund, how are you enjoying the tournament?’
Edmund had fallen silent but now he turned his attention to the field. ‘I was watching the horses, they are restless. Is it their turn yet?’
York was surprised. Had the younger boy had not witnessed the bloodshed? ‘Very soon, we will see them tilt at the ring. But look, here is Warwick.’
The swarthy and compact figure of the earl, wrapped in brown furs, appeared at the foot of the pavilion. With a leap, he pulled himself up beside them.
‘I have asked cousin Warwick to undertake your training at Westminster, he will be continuing your preparation in the chivalric arts; I could think of no better tutor.’
Warwick nodded to Edward, then Edmund, before his eyes became focused.
‘My Lord, there is trouble in the city, to the east. An attack has been made on the home of a merchant in Thames Street and it threatens to overspill the streets.’
The duke frowned. ‘There are men in attendance?’
‘Indeed but they lack direction. Shall I go to them? We must contain it before it escalates.’
York thought for a moment, stroking his beard. ‘I will go. But there are my sons to consider. Warwick, you must get them back safely to Westminster, take the river route.’
‘But I…’
‘Those are my wishes. I must go to the scene and my sons must be safe. Let us act now.’
The duke spoke briefly to the mayor before turning back to Edward and Edmund. ‘There is a disturbance in the city; it may prove nothing but I must go and put a stop to it in person; we cannot allow the lawlessness of the last year to return. Warwick will take you from here back to the river, to keep you away from the danger.’
‘But perhaps we might help, if we came with you,’ Edward offered eagerly.
‘No, not this time. Your safety is paramount; you must return to Westminster and watch over your mother until I return.’
The boys exchanged glances, understanding their duty. ‘Of course father.’
*
They headed off down past the church of St Sepulchre, the horses’ nostrils flaring as if they could scent danger.
‘Keep close,’ urged Warwick, in his gravelly voice. ‘We’ll avoid the Blackfriars steps as an obvious flashpoint and pick up a boat a little further along.’
The streets seemed quiet enough but Edward had confidence in the earl’s judgement; their father would not have trusted them to him otherwise. They headed towards Newgate, then down towards St Martin’s where the bells were pealing out a warning, and on to Addle Hill. The houses on either side were tall and well built, their large glassed windows and shutters displaying the signs of wealth.
Edward turned to check that Edmund was at his side, his heart beating faster at the possibility of danger lying ahead. His brother was not far behind, clinging tightly to his mount, his eyes narrowed with concentration.
Warwick paused briefly, reining in his horse before a tavern bearing the sign of three bells. Chickens had broken loose from somewhere and were pecking about in the dirt.
‘Ready? In a moment we will cross Thames Street; once we’re across, we’re almost at Paul’s steps, so be swift and do not stop. Ready?’
The boys nodded.
But then the mood changed suddenly. The way ahead became misted over with people and voices. At the far end of the street, they saw shadows, swiftly moving forward, threatening to encroach upon their space.
‘Damn,’ cursed Warwick, seizing Edmund’s bridle. ‘They’ve moved west, we must double back and head for Blackfriars where we can shelter, do not delay.’
They wheeled round, clattering in the narrow space, their heads level with the upstairs windows of the houses. From afar they heard shouting. Edward spurred his horse onwards and it leapt ahead, with a jump, shaking him in his saddle. For a moment, he lost control, making him cold with fear. Then, as if his steed understood, it drew level with Warwick and the three of them galloped back up to the crossroads.
Turning into Carter Lane, they fou
nd their way blocked by the stands of a small market. Barrels of fish and loaves of bread were being sold, songbirds in crates and sacks of flour, but the people looked uneasy, as if the mood of discontent was spreading. Some were already packing up their wares, others seemed to be arguing. Beside them, a crate of turnips was upended and the vegetables rolled into the gutter. Their horses danced to avoid tripping.
Cautiously, they picked their way ahead. The street began to widen, although the press of people seemed suddenly to double.
‘There!’ called Warwick. ‘The spire of St Andrew’s. From there we can head to the river.’
He urged forward and Edward was about to follow. But then, a harsh, grating sound filled the air; Edmund’s horse kicked up its hind legs and threw him from the saddle. He landed hard on the cobbles at the road’s edge.
At once Warwick had dismounted and was bending over the boy, trying to raise him. Edmund tried to stand but his ankle was limp.
‘Edward!’ the earl shouted. ‘Dismount and gather the horses.’
A man, sinister-eyed, moved to approach them.
‘Keep your distance!’ cried Warwick, drawing his sword. ‘Here, Edward, follow me.’
‘My apologies, my Lord,’ the man muttered. ‘I was sharpening knives, it was the grinding noise that made the horse turn.’
‘Let us pass,’ insisted Warwick. ‘Sharpen your knives elsewhere, where they can do no harm. And clear out of this place, for trouble is brewing.’
He led them through the dark gateway of a large inn and into the courtyard. An ostler appeared in the doorway at once.
‘Secure the gates. The riot is spreading! Secure the gates, man!’
The fellow did as he was bid and the threat was locked outside. Then he led them through wood panelled corridors into an inner room, where a low lantern was burning.
Warwick cast a critical eye around. ‘It’ll do. Get a fire going, bring blankets, wine. Move man, go. You will be rewarded. And call for a surgeon.’
‘A surgeon?’ Edmund’s eyes widened as he eased himself into a chair.
‘Just as a precaution, to check this ankle. Now sit and rest.’
He moved to the window, peered to see out of the tiny pane. ‘The rioting must have spread east. Your father will soon contain it but it is better that we do not get drawn in; we’d be sitting targets here. When it quietens, we will head to the bridge and soon be back at Westminster. There is nothing to fear. We must just sit tight.’
He turned, forced a smile.
‘Of course,’ said Edward, trying to appear cheerful. ‘Father will soon have it under control.’
A maid hurried in, clattering wood in a scuttle, and began to lay kindling in the grate. Soon there was a small bright spark of golden flame and a welcome warmth spread through the room.
*
The doctor bent his white head over Edmund’s ankle. With careful but firm fingers, he felt the position of the bones and manipulated the joint. Edmund winced.
‘Sorry my Lord, it was necessary.’
He straightened himself up and nodded at Warwick. ‘Your diagnosis is correct. There is nothing broken but the ankle is swollen and should not have weight put on it; it must be rested and dressed in poultices of cabbage leaves and mint. I can prepare some and bring them over, all being quiet outside.’
Warwick nodded and handed over a small purse of coins. ‘Thank you. We will wait here until the danger has passed and then venture down to the river. Edmund should be able to ride and once we find a boat, we will be straight back to Westminster. Send your poultices there.’
Edward frowned. ‘So we will wait here until all is safe?’
‘Indeed. The pot boy brought news of houses being looted near St Andrews. It would be wiser to remain.’
Edward bridled, his youthful manhood struggling with the idea of cowardice. ‘But father is out there, should you and I not go and seek him?’
‘And what good would your death achieve? I promised your father I would bring you back safely and I will do so; sometimes the wiser man waits while the fool rushes in.’
‘Father is not a fool!’
Warwick grimaced. ‘You misunderstand. It would be foolish to go outside now, into the unknown, for no certain gains or cause.’
Edward nodded. ‘So it is I who am the fool.’
‘No Edward, but you are young and inexperienced. You are being too sensitive.’
The youth’s pride was piqued. Worse than that, he knew Warwick was right but he still burned with the desire to prove himself. ‘I’ll go through into the inn and take something to drink. You can find me there, when the danger has passed.’
It was dark in the next room. The torches burned low and Edward had the distinct impression that the inn was not open for business. A number of trestle tables and benches filled the space, some still set with the plates and tankards of last night and the sawdust on the floor smelt rank with urine and spillages. A dark doorway led to some back rooms but there did not seem to be anyone about. The fellow from earlier had disappeared.
‘Hello?’
His voice echoed back to him from the bowels of the building. He stood for a moment, reluctant to go back to Warwick, and wandered to the window to kill some time. At first, there seemed to be little activity out in the street but, as he drew closer to the pane, a band of men armed with cudgels raced past, perhaps fifteen or twenty, shouting and cursing. Their angry glances and cruel mouths made him draw back again into the gloom. Warwick’s caution had been justified. For now, this was the safest place to be.
He sat in the corner, unnoticed and unmoving. The minutes passed in silence. Light falling in through the window dimmed and ebbed as a brief shower of rain quenched the city. Finally, he could bear the inertia no more and got to his feet to explore. Through the doorway he found the other downstairs rooms; a dirty kitchen with large fireplace and spit, a storehouse with sacks and barrels and a tiny bedroom, dominated by a straw mattress with rumpled sheets left in the shape of the last sleeper.
‘Hello?’
Again there was no response. He was about to return to Warwick and Edmund in the little room with the fire, when he spotted the staircase. It was solid, heavy, built of dark wood and seemed to form the heart of the house, almost as if the rooms had been added around it at a later date. Curiosity overcame him and he slowly climbed round its right-angled turns up towards the first floor. His skin prickled with the sense that he was entering private territory but he did not stop. Some sense of excitement, or the thrill of discovery, perhaps even of entitlement, sent him along the landing. At the end, the final door stood ajar. The dim light from a candle sent flickering tongues around its edges, like an invitation. There was movement within.
Some hidden sense awoke within him. He drew closer and put his ear to the wood. Like the faint constant beat of his heart in his chest, a low noise reached him, a lilting rise and fall, a soft, sweet drone, a revelation: a woman humming. It was intimate, encouraging. He felt acutely aware of his body, of the physicality of the space around him and his proximity to her. The strip of light revealed an expanse of floorboards and the side of a carved chest. She was some way off, possibly with her back to him. She probably wouldn’t notice if he pushed the door open slightly. If he put his eye to the door, if he entered.
But Edward wasn’t that bold. He was, after all, not quite fourteen years old, sure of his young strong body but aware of the attraction that women could hold. Without being taught, he had understood the promise in their eyes and the comfort they could offer but he had not yet reached out to accept it. Inexperience stayed him. At the door, he merely drew close and stared into the lit room, a tall, broad-shouldered boy, lips quivering at the thought of infinite possibilities.
She moved into his line of vision, a tune still resonant in her throat. Her fair hair was caught up on top of her head, as she undressed to wash herself, with loose strands hanging down the back of her long neck. She could have been fifteen, or twenty-five, her skin st
ill plump and unspoiled by hard work or the bearing of children. The shoulders were rounded and pink, as she unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the ground; he could imagine pressing his mouth against the skin at her throat and behind her ear. Swathed in her long white shift, he could trace the outline of her figure, of the fullness of breasts and hips. He lifted his fingers, almost involuntarily, but they fell just short of the door, of pushing it wide, stepping inside and claiming her.
Perhaps she sensed him. Her pert little chin lifted and she turned her head slightly, revealing the curve of her cheek. The bed beside her seemed like an invitation. Surely she would laugh, to discover a mere boy trembling at her bedroom door? As she turned, slowly, he held his breath. He saw the mould of her lips, the straight nose and generous chin, the wide blue eyes, the inquisitive cast to her expression. She was older than he had anticipated, maybe even twice his age, but she was at the height of her beauty. He gazed at her as a mortal may gaze at a goddess. Then her eyes slowly rested on him and he saw her give a tiny start, almost imperceptible, like the beat of her dark lashes. Her lips parted slightly. He saw small, white pearly teeth, the tip of her tongue, her interest. One arched brow raised in a question.
‘Edward?’
The spell broke. Warwick was in the stairwell, calling up.
‘Are you there? We must be on the move, hurry. Edward?’
Disappointment rushed over him, engulfed him, almost unbearably. Then there was the collapse of shame; of being a boy summoned away by a man at the exact moment of promise. She pouted slightly, bemused at this tall child whom she had transfixed.
‘Sorry,’ he mouthed and tore himself away, his body burning.
He half fell, half tumbled, down the stairs.