The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2)

by Alex Marchant

  These letters from Alys and Ed, a few from Elen – none at all from Roger, of course, just odd lines scribbled at the end of others’ messages – were the most precious things in my life now, together with Murrey – my only remaining links with that part of my life that had gone and now, looking back, seemed so brief. I kept them safe always, hidden in my bundle in my attic room or, the most recent, tucked in my pouch with other of my treasures, to be read and reread in any moments of leisure. My fingers itched to retrieve them now as my father spoke more of my old master and his family.

  ‘It’s said the King plans a great council to rule in the north – to show that he will not neglect us now he must live here in the capital. His sister’s son, the Earl of Lincoln, will be a great man thereabouts in his place, no doubt to keep my lord of Northumberland in check. And little Prince Edward will stay on in northern parts and learn to govern alongside him.’

  Ed’s howl of disappointment on being told this news tore through my head as though I had been there with him. His last letter to me had been full of the dread of being left behind when his beloved mother and father made their way back to London, as had happened in the spring. Now his fears were shown to be well founded. He would see it as a further cruelty, although my father obviously approved.

  Our conversation turned then to our family matters – the coming marriage of my eldest brother, John, how my baby sister was growing, that my new mother was praying for a baby of her own – and soon it was time for my father to say his farewells. Once he had embraced me, Mistress Ashley arrived in a rustle of silk skirts to relay her husband’s apologies at having been called away on business. She pressed into my father’s grateful hands a basket of grapes and violet plums from the beautiful gardens, and then he was gone.

  All that was left was his familiar smell of lanolin, leather and ink lingering in the air, the warm memory of his pride in me and loyalty to our King – and his usual reassurance that York would ever be my home if I should need it.

  My mood was mixed as I returned to my work in the printing house – happiness at my father’s praise, longing to see the rest of my family again, sadness at not witnessing the festivities in York with my friends, sorrow for Ed. But I had little time to rake through such thoughts as there came a hollering and a hammering at the main door – loud enough to reach us above the clacking and groaning of the printing press at work.

  Master de Vries, the new print master lately arrived from Flanders together with the mint-new printing press, told Simon and me to keep working as he hurried off to investigate. But of course, intrigued, we followed him out and through the connecting passageways, to find in the entrance hall half the household staff clustered, chattering like an excited flock of starlings.

  In their midst was Master Lyndsey, clapping his hands and raising his voice, calling for calm. Beside him Mistress Ashley was speaking in an undertone with a stranger clad in dusty leather armour, who clutched a sealed letter in one hand.

  As Simon and I lurked in a doorway watching, Mistress Ashley led the man away towards her husband’s study. The hubbub quietened and at last Master Lyndsey’s words could be heard above the uproar.

  ‘Our master has already been called away to the city council, so no doubt we shall soon know more. But this messenger says the call has gone out for men to rally to the city’s defence. The militia will be gathering at the usual muster points. All men of fighting age are free to attend.’

  With that he followed his mistress and the soldier into the study and the crowd splintered off in all directions.

  Master de Vries caught sight of us hovering in the background and flapped his hands at us.

  ‘Away you go, boys,’ he said in his heavily accented English. ‘Work is over for the day. But you must keep to the house. It may not be safe on the streets.’

  ‘But what has happened, Master?’ Simon asked, as the print master took us each by the elbow and steered us back towards his workshop.

  ‘Nothing is quite clear yet, boys, but they say that there have been rumblings of discontent in some areas since the summer. Since King Richard stood against the old King’s family and then became King himself. Now rebels have declared themselves and are marching on London.’

  ‘On London!’

  Simon was a local boy and terror was splashed across his face.

  ‘Aye, lad. But fear not – it will take several days for them to march in from their lairs in Kent.’

  ‘Kent? But that isn’t so very far,’ I protested, remembering the country I had ridden through with Master Ashley’s party on the way to the port on the coast.

  ‘They will be trying to gather supporters on their way – that will take time, if they manage it at all.’

  Fear was still in Simon’s eyes, despite Master de Vries’s calming words.

  ‘But what will happen when they get here? My family —’

  He fell silent as the print master raised his hands.

  ‘Master Lyndsey says the Duke of Norfolk has been making preparations for some time. He has already called up his men to take the field against any rebels. And once London’s own defenders are gathered, there will be nothing to fear. Master Hardyng tells me that Londoners are most valiant in their city’s defence.’

  ‘But why? Who are they – the rebels?’ I asked.

  ‘The word is that they are Lancastrians – and supporters of the old Queen’s family.’

  ‘The Woodvilles?’ said Simon. ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll no doubt be men who fear they may lose their jobs and preferments under King Richard,’ Master de Vries replied, searing scorn in his voice. ‘And maybe they would if they carry on their corrupt lives and don’t adjust to the new King’s ways. It is said they plan to place the old Queen’s son, young Edward, on the throne, despite the boy’s bastardy.’

  My thoughts snapped back to the events of early summer. And to the old Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, who was still living in sanctuary after more than five months.

  ‘But how would they do that? And would Parliament allow it?’

  Master de Vries’s face was grim.

  ‘They’ve timed it well, I’ll allow them that. With the King away in the north of the country, with few men about him, and most of the great lords out of London... If the rebels are able to capture the city and the Tower, and prevent the King from returning... If they can raise enough men to face him...’

  He shook his head, then shrugged.

  ‘But I am sure the city will stand firm against them. And my lord of Norfolk has rallied many men to him already, with more to come. It seems there were warning signs... I doubt the old Queen and her family will win out and get the chance to put their case to Parliament – whatever case they believe they have.’

  By now we had cleared away our work tools and with the dark bulk of the printing press brooding still and silent as at the end of a normal day, Master de Vries dismissed us. His last words were a reminder not to leave the house.

  But of course I could not heed him, not today, not with rebellion brewing against my old master.

  Saying nothing to Simon, or any of the household, I slipped out of a back door and into the bustle of the city, uncertain at first where to direct my feet. But it wasn’t long before I was aware of small groups of men, in twos and threes, some clutching bundles, hurrying away from the river. I guessed they were on their way to join the defence.

  With Murrey sticking close, I chose two men to follow, winding my way behind them through the crowds of people thronging the streets – peaceful still, carrying on with their usual business. Had they, perhaps, not heard of the threat on its way?

  Unlike Simon I had no worry for my own family. My father had said he would be leaving London the next day to return to York, and if Master de Vries was right, it would be some time before the city would be facing any real danger.

  The two men I was trailing had the appearance of young craft journeymen, around the age of my elder brother, perhaps leatherworkers or cobblers
from their clothes and the calluses on their hands. They joked and laughed together as they jostled their way through the townsfolk, heading always north through the maze of alleys and courtyards in this part of the city. They seemed not to observe they had two shadows on their heels – one human and one hound. All around us other men, most older, a few younger, some grim-faced, more of them lighter-hearted like my guides, strode purposefully in the same direction. Soon we all merged with a stream of men flowing along a wider street, lined by a mixture of fine merchants’ houses and craft workshops. Far ahead of us loomed one of the massive gates through the city wall.

  In all my months’ apprenticeship and, before that, my time in London during the winter, I had never ventured into this area. But as the stone gatehouse rose above us and I passed with the others through its dark archway out into sunlight-flooded open fields, I guessed where we were. This must be Moorfields, the marshy land where the men of York had camped before the coronation and before their triumphal entry to the city behind the King and Earl of Northumberland. Where Master Lyndsey had said Londoners had turned out to mock them and their ancient gear. Now Londoners themselves were collecting together here to repel a real threat.

  Hundreds were there already as I trudged out on to the tussocky ground. Within moments I had lost my two guides amidst the hustle and bustle, as busy as a summer fair back in York. My eyes were drawn this way and that by men shouting to each other, greeting friends and clapping them across the back, leading horses, mules, asses, pushing and shoving every which way to find a path through the gathering. Two or three times I had to skip smartly out of the way before a boot or a hoof stomped down on my foot. Murrey’s sharp barked warnings reached my ears above the clamour as her warm flank pressed comfortingly against my leg.

  After a while a pattern emerged in the chaos. Here and there huddles formed around soldiers clad in leather armour like the messenger at Master Ashley’s. These officers clasped wood-bound wax tablets such as I had used in lessons at the Minster school and were busy jotting on them as they spoke to the men clustering about them.

  Attaching myself to the nearest knot of men, I hovered on the fringes, straining to hear what was being said over the racket all around. I stood there only a minute or two before the officer spotted me and beckoned. The men to either side pressed back to let me pass.

  My steps forward were slow, despite my earlier eagerness to join the city’s defenders, aware as I was of all those eyes upon me. The officer waved me to him once more.

  ‘Hurry up, boy.’

  His eyes narrowed, his stylus poised above his writing tablet.

  ‘Have you brought me a message from your master? Will he or his journeymen be joining us later? Just give me his name and I will write it down.’

  I swallowed, my face warm under his stare.

  ‘No, sir, not my master, but me. I’ve come to offer my service.’

  My voice sounded high and hesitant to my ears, a boy’s voice only still, and all about me laughter flared. I wished then that I had not come. But I was heartened both by Murrey’s growl and that the officer himself did not laugh.

  Instead he squinted at me again, looking me up and down.

  ‘Nay, lad, you’re rather small to join the muster. The city’s not so desperate yet. Nor likely to be, from what I’ve heard of these paltry rebels.’

  The laughter changed to cheers and the officer allowed himself a smile.

  ‘So, be off with you. Or your master will be missing you. Next?’

  I stood my ground, stopping those around me from stepping up.

  ‘But, sir, is there no way I can be of use? I want to serve my King. Look!’

  Remembering my boar badge – for all it had been no help at the coronation – I pointed to where it was still fastened to my doublet.

  His face altered. Was it suspicion or –?

  His next words confirmed it.

  ‘So you wear the King’s badge? Who did you steal that from, hey?’

  I was shocked at the idea.

  ‘No one!’ My fierce response prompted another rumble from Murrey as I protested, ‘He gave it to me with his own hands. When he was still Duke. I was his page.’

  ‘Any thief could say that.’

  ‘You can ask my new master. He’ll vouch for me.’

  To my surprise, the officer roared with laughter.

  ‘Don’t fret, lad. It’s just my little joke. You’re not the only one here today who wants to serve the King – nor who has a badge to show. Though,’ he leaned in close, peering at my chest, ‘not all perhaps such a pretty one. Most I’ve seen have been hessian ones, given to all and sundry at the coronation. Maybe we can find you a job after all. Have you keen sight?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ I said, drawing a breath in relief.

  ‘Perhaps the watch will have a use for you. If your new master can spare you.’

  He laid a heavy stress on the word ‘new’ as though he hadn’t believed my earlier words. But I didn’t care.

  And that was how I came to be atop the great wall of London at midnight.

  10 The Watch

  It was a fine clear night, the faintest nip of early frost in the air as I paced along the walkway on the top of the city wall.

  Above me, a dusting of stars, no moon; behind me, any lanterns still burning in the city blotted out by the ancient fortress known as the Tower.

  People said a castle had stood here since the Conquest, guarding the crossing of the river. That it had never fallen, even during the cousins’ war more than three centuries ago, when Queen Mathilda and King Stephen had fought each other for the crown. I prayed tonight that its venerable stones would prove invincible once again if the rebels should attack.

  The elegant square building called the White Tower dominated the castle complex, overshadowing every other structure in the several acres enclosed on three sides by the deep moat, on the fourth by the river. This night few lights shone through its arrow slits. Its defenders were not on high alert.

  Master de Vries had been right. More than seven nights now I had paced for hours along the wall top, before handing over the watch to my replacement and tracing my way back through the pitch-dark streets to throw myself, bone-weary, on my narrow attic bed. And still there was no sign of the Kentish rebels.

  This morning, on an errand for Master Ashley, I had watched as a hundred horsemen or more and several companies of footsoldiers had filed through the city streets, despatched across the river to seek the rebels. At their head, beneath a banner of a silver lion rampant, rode the Duke of Norfolk, newly honoured with that title by King Richard before his coronation. Watchful eyes in a face lined by many summers scanned the cheering crowds even as he raised his mailed hand to salute them. I had seen him once or twice before on visits to the watch or city guard, speaking to officers and men as if he were one of them. They touched their caps or doffed their helmets, but soon they were joking with him with no mind to his noble status.

  A shiver ambushed me as I gazed across the country beyond the wall. A keen breeze carried with it the scent of burnt stubble from the autumn fields, mingled with the salt smell of the tide as it raced up the river towards the bridge. Not a glimmer of light in that direction, save one on the mast of a merchant ship I had marked before sundown, tethered downstream of the city, no doubt awaiting the ebbing of the tide. No movement or sound either. Nothing that could herald the approach of the rebels.

  The darkness and silence were split by a shattering, drawn-out roar, answered at once by Murrey, starting up, snarling in her turn.

  I grabbed at her collar before she flung herself off the wall to find the source of the challenge. I knew it well enough now, though my little hound still could not understand. For there within the Tower precinct was the famous royal menagerie of exotic beasts.

  I had never seen them, but my fellow watchmen had told me of the graceful long-necked creatures which reached far above a man’s head, colossal grey thick-skinned animals with snakes for nos
es, sandy-coloured horses with splayed feet and hills upon their backs, ferocious giant cats with shaggy manes upon their heads and roaring voices that split the night. Lions. The noble beasts of kings and emperors.

  How I longed to see them! And had thought several times to take myself to the great gateway into the Tower and ask to be admitted.

  I recalled how young Edward – then King – had invited me to visit him there and view his wondrous exhibit. But also to mind came the reception of my boar badge by the officer at Moorfields – how it was a two-a-penny thing, perhaps no more to be considered a key to the Tower than it was a key to the good graces of the militia.

  I fingered it now as I relaxed my grip on Murrey, her snarl having subsided to a grumble deep within her throat. I knew it was not a tuppenny-ha’penny thing, not really. Forged of choice silver, not cut from drab cloth, and handed to me alone by a royal duke, soon to be King. But by that token, not to be employed for tawdry purposes, such as fulfilment of a base desire to spy on strange, savage beasts.

  For just that reason I had refrained from attempting entry to the Tower to find Edward himself – lodged there still as far as I knew, with his brother Richard, in the luxurious royal apartments of the Garden Tower. Its dark bulk, close to the menagerie, was visible from my vantage point, its wide windows facing the river black squares now, only one or two still outlined with flickering firelight.

  I had thought often of Edward these past nights, as I had during the summer. Of what he did, how he spent his time – and how he bore the thought that he was now never to be king. Perhaps he had been relieved. His words to me on our long rides together had suggested as much. Yet what was in his mind now, if he knew of the rebellion in his name? Did he hope that the Kentish rebels, and those also recently reported south of the city in Surrey, would prevail, seize him from his lodgings, defeat his uncle Richard, and put him back upon the throne? Did he even still believe that was his place after the revelations about his parents’ marriage – or lack of it – and his declared illegitimacy?