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

by Alex Marchant

  I bent down and stroked Murrey’s tufted head, my touch rewarded by her raising her eyes to mine. Reflected in their velvet depths, stars glowed like the dying embers of a fire.

  ‘Matt!’

  The voice hailing me was Simon’s.

  He had caught me leaving Master Ashley’s on the evening of my first watch and had insisted on coming with me so he also could serve King Richard. The officer in charge had shrugged and told him to relieve me for the second watch of the night.

  The stretch of wall that we patrolled was only short – maybe half the length of that guarded by adults of the watch. Perhaps the officer was merely humouring us young boys in our zeal to be of use. But I was glad even just to do this. And, having found among our master’s many books a volume on the basics of swordplay, Simon and I had pledged that once this danger was past, we would join together in training. We had already lodged an order for two hardened chestnut swords with a local woodturner.

  ‘Is all quiet?’ he asked now.

  ‘All quiet,’ I agreed. ‘Save the lions.’

  He flashed a smile, just perceptible in the darkness.

  ‘Maybe they’re hoping to greet the rebels with a warm welcome.’

  ‘I could do with one of those. It’s a chilly night.’

  ‘The brazier’s still lit in the guard house. Captain says there will be spiced ale if you don’t dawdle.’

  We clasped hands and, whistling to Murrey, I picked my way down the nearest flight of narrow steps clinging to the inside of the wall. A little way along, snug against the ancient stonework, crouched a small building. A warm, wavering orange glow spilled from its open doorway, illuminating to one side two seated men, casting dice and talking quietly. At my approach, one rose, while the other reached for an axe lying upon the ground next to him.

  I stood still and cleared my throat.

  ‘Matthew Wansford of the watch, sir.’

  The standing man nodded, his face hidden in the gloom.

  ‘Aye, lad, I knew from that shadow by your side. Rest easy, Dan.’ He waved his hand to his companion, who replaced the axe upon the cobbles. ‘’Tis only the lad who takes the first watch and his little hound. There’s nothing to worry about – you’ll have time aplenty to win back your pennies from me.’ Then again to me, ‘All’s quiet, lad? Neither hide nor hair of the traitors?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Long may that continue. Take yourself off to your bed, lad. Or if you prefer, warm yourself at the fire and sup what mulled ale the guard have left.’

  My nostrils twitched at the enticing scent of clove and cinnamon wafting in the night air and, with a bow to the captain and his friend, I stepped into the outer chamber of the guard house.

  A scatter of stools, a small table or two, an earthenware cauldron suspended above the iron latticework of the brazier in the middle of the room, crammed with glowing coals, tiny flames licking at their edges. Snores penetrated the stout door from the inner chamber, where the company of guards rested while awaiting any alarm.

  I ladled out some steaming ale and took myself off to a stool against the far wall. Murrey settled herself at my feet as I took a first sip. The liquid scalded my tongue, leaving behind grittiness from the spices.

  Setting the cup upon a table to cool, I fished in my pouch, drawing out the small leather-bound volume of ‘The Death of Arthur’ given to me by the Duchess – now Queen, I corrected myself. Safe within it were folded the most recent letters from my friends, so far away. I opened the book now, and with it the letters. I couldn’t read them in the poor light thrown by the brazier, but I didn’t need to. As my fingertips brushed the smooth papers and the faint spider-scrawls of ink, I recalled them almost word for word, I had read them so often.

  My glimpse of the Duke of Norfolk in the morning brought to mind Alys’s lively tales from the court, and how his wife had been slighted on the day of the coronation. Though a great friend, she had been robbed of the chance to hold the new Queen’s train for the ceremony by Lady Stanley, wife of a Royal Council member, who claimed seniority. Alys had been scathing in her letter:

  She claims her first husband was an Earl, but even a newly made Duchess is senior to a Countess – in everything, except perhaps age. The Queen and Duchess laughed about it later, but Lady Tyrell – who has quite befriended me since I’ve been here – said the Duke of Norfolk had words with Lord Stanley about it.

  And indeed this morning my lord of Norfolk had appeared the sort of steadfast gentleman who would display such loyalty to both his wife and his King.

  Voices broke through my musing, above even the cacophony of snoring from the sleeping guards. Outside, the captain was speaking, not quietly to his friend as before, but challenging a newcomer.

  The new voice stirred something deep inside me, unnerving me before I could even distinguish any words, although the captain’s tones had become friendlier. Murrey uncurled her lithe body and pushed her head up against my hand. I felt rather than heard the rumble in her throat, then the fur bristled on her head. Was she sensing my strange disquiet, or had the voice itself provoked her?

  Among the snores, now, snatches of the conversation became audible – single words, odd phrases. ‘Rebels – West Country – His Grace – royal seal – Grantham – Duke of Buckingham – foul traitor – ready to take up arms – Tudor – the south coast – string ’em up.’ As I struggled to make out what was afoot, the familiarity of the second voice grew, until at the captain’s final words, ‘at the fire’, it at last struck me with the force of a blow who stood outside, reporting.

  I sprang to my feet, my hand flying unbidden to the knife at my belt as a broad shadow cut across the doorway. It stepped forward, the firelight grasping at its face, and my fear was confirmed.

  It was Hugh Soulsby.

  His eyes met mine, but for a second he didn’t recognize me. Then his features twisted, and the brazier’s flickering flames and their pitch-black shadows transformed him into all the red-painted demons from hell I’d ever seen daubed on church walls.

  The moment passed. Moving to one side, he revealed the captain’s companion, Dan, following in his wake.

  Hugh dropped the helmet he was carrying on to a nearby table and shrugged his thick travelling cloak from his shoulders. Beneath was the iron-studded leather armour now worn by so many men around the city.

  Dan scooped out a cup of spiced ale and handed it to him, turning back to the cauldron to fill another. Seeing me there, he gestured with the ladle as though offering to replenish mine, but I shook my head in silence.

  ‘Sit you down, lad,’ he said to Hugh as he poured ale for himself. Then to me, ‘And you, lad, if you want to hear this squire’s report. He’s brought word of the rebels. It seems the treachery is spreading.’

  Inside, a part of me was screaming at me to leave, to get far away from this boy who had been such an evil influence on my life. But he and Dan stood between me and the doorway. And, for all my loathing of Hugh, I dearly wanted news of the rebellion.

  Hugh didn’t glance at me again as he drew up a stool close to the brazier. He seated himself and rubbed his hands, stretching them towards the fireglow, before picking up his cup again, rolling it in his hands to warm them some more. Dan also sat and I lowered myself back on to my stool, tucking my book and letters away in my pouch. Murrey rested her head upon my knee, letting out a faint whine as I caressed her silky ears.

  ‘Come, lad,’ Dan was saying, ‘you were in full flow to the captain when I came back from relieving myself. Can you start your report again, briefer this time, if it suits you?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Hugh took a taste of his ale and his shadowed eyes peered at me a moment above the rim of his cup. As he lowered it again, a hint of his usual smirk fleeted across his face, before he turned again to his questioner.

  ‘As I told your captain, sir, I’ve been sent by order of the Royal Council to report to all the guards along this stretch of the defences. Your company is t
he last. The Council reports that the rebellion is swelling. There has been word from the King that rebels are marching also in Wales and the west country. His Grace has ordered the Great Seal to be sent to him at Grantham.’

  The little I knew of how the kingdom was governed told me that mention of this royal seal was important, but what Hugh said next drove all thought of it from my head.

  ‘And he has proclaimed the Duke of Buckingham a traitor.’

  ‘Buckingham? A traitor?’ Dan’s amazement was no greater than my own.

  ‘Aye, sir. It seems he is leading the rebels in the west, marching out from his stronghold at Brecon. The rebels in Kent and Surrey have already declared him their leader.’

  ‘Is it possible?’ Dan’s question echoed that careering round my own head. ‘Can he be so rash? I heard the King had granted him all the lands and titles he coveted. What can he seek to gain?’ His shook his head in disbelief. ‘They say few men have rallied to the rebels so far. And with the King mustering a great army in the midlands, the north steadfast in its support – and London holding firm for him – what hope can my lord of Buckingham have of taking the city and putting the boy Edward back on the throne?’

  ‘They say that is not his aim.’

  ‘Not his aim?’ Dan spluttered. ‘Not the aim of these Woodville lackeys who dare to take up arms against their rightful King? What then can be Buckingham’s plan? And why has he thrown in his lot with them?’

  Hugh gulped again at his drink, lengthening the expectant moment as though to increase its drama.

  ‘They say, sir, that he has taken the cause of Henry Tudor.’

  Dan was shocked into silence. His mouth hung open, a dark void in the firelit oval of his face.

  A coal fell with a clatter within the brazier, breaking the stillness, before I dared to speak.

  ‘Henry Tudor? Who is he?’

  Hugh shot me a glance, but said nothing.

  Dan shook himself and closed his mouth, before opening it again to spit out the words,

  ‘A traitor from the line of Lancaster. He calls himself the Earl of Richmond, but that title was taken away from his family for their treachery. He claims he has more right to the crown than any Yorkist – and he fled to exile in Brittany years ago rather than bow down to King Edward. And Buckingham’s family were of course Lancastrians in the past.’

  Hugh’s face showed no expression as Dan turned to him again.

  ‘And is there news of Tudor’s movements in all this?’

  Hugh shrugged.

  ‘None that I have heard. Though there have been rumours that the Duke of Brittany has been equipping ships and soldiers for him.’

  Dan spat into the brazier. It sizzled and flared.

  ‘Pah! Rumours. There are always rumours. And Brittany, France – always keen to stir up trouble for us. Old King Edward should have dealt properly with them years ago. But, no – he preferred their gifts and promises of friendship and weasel words.’

  ‘But we have had peace with them.’

  ‘Peace? At what cost? Their constant manoeuvrings, helping our enemies behind our backs, harbouring them as they plot against us, allowing pirates to plunder our ships and disrupt our trade – maybe encouraging them. That’s not a peace worth the name. And now this. Lady Stanley should have been told to deal with her son long ago.’

  The familiar name prompted me to ask, ‘Lady Stanley, sir?’

  ‘She’s wife now to Lord Thomas Stanley, who is close advisor to the King and Council. But she is mother to this Tudor by her first husband. And they say she has some influence.’ Dan was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Though it must be said, Lord Stanley and his family’s loyalty to King Richard and King Edward has been questionable at best.’

  ‘Sir!’ Hugh protested. ‘My uncle, Lord Soulsby, is Lord Thomas’s man. Who questions his loyalty questions the honour of my family too.’

  At this, the man stood quickly and bowed to him.

  ‘Then I beg pardon, lad. I repeat only what I have heard. Take no offence, I pray you. We are all here united in our loyalty to the King.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, we are.’

  Hugh buried his face in his cup once more and I could not read his expression.

  ‘Yet still I cannot understand why Buckingham would throw in his lot with this pretender,’ continued Dan. ‘If anything, he himself has as good a claim to the throne as Tudor does. Better, even. And word was that the rebellion sought only to restore old King Edward’s son to the crown.’

  Hugh placed his cup back upon the table and raised his hands again towards the brazier, as though still cold. He looked at neither me nor Dan as he said,

  ‘Perhaps other news can explain it, sir. My uncle tells me that word has come from France that King Edward’s sons are...’ he paused, ‘… are dead.’

  The word plunged like a stone into the room.

  Dan’s mouth fell open again.

  ‘Dead?’ I choked the word out.

  Hugh stabbed me with a look.

  ‘Aye. Dead.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Murdered.’

  I could not speak again. It was as though hands were upon my throat, squeezing it, stopping my words, my breath.

  Dan picked up where I left off.

  ‘It cannot be. They are safe within the Tower.’

  ‘And who has charge of the Tower?’

  ‘King Richard, of course. And the Constable.’

  ‘The Constable. Aye. Since the summer, the Duke of Buckingham. And the Deputy Constable, Brackenbury. Both loyal to the King. Yet now... As you say – and my uncle too – what cause should my lord of Buckingham have to turn rebel against the King?’

  Thought after thought could be seen chasing across Dan’s face, mirroring the turmoil in my own mind. What was Hugh suggesting?

  ‘You cannot be serious, boy. That our King... that King Richard...’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But King Richard...’

  ‘God’s teeth, sir! He has already taken their crown. Placed himself on the throne in their stead. My uncle says this would be the next sensible step. He says he would do it himself if he were in the King’s place.’

  ‘What next step?’

  ‘To rid himself of the boys. Once and for all.’

  His eyes wide, Dan looked about him and back through the dark entranceway, as though afraid of who might be watching or listening in the shadows. Hugh took another mouthful of his ale.

  ‘Have a care, lad. What you are saying is treason. And for what reason would King Richard commit such a crime? Parliament set the boys aside. King Richard is the rightful King. There’s no need for – for murder.’

  ‘Maybe so. But it’s the talk of Brittany, they say.’

  ‘Who says?’ I found my voice again. Hugh glanced my way.

  ‘My uncle. He has contacts. People who hear things. Who know things.’

  ‘More rumours, you mean?’ I remembered what King Richard had said to the Duke of Buckingham of rumours – when he was himself still Duke, all those months ago in Northampton. ‘They’re dangerous things. You should not believe them lightly. And these people who’ve said this. They don’t know him. And they’re miles away. How could they know anything?’

  ‘Word gets around.’

  ‘Or it’s sent around,’ Dan put in. ‘Brittany, you said? Maybe by Tudor, then. He wants to be King himself, if the rebels defeat King Richard and are spurred on by this. And the boys would stand in his way too.’

  ‘But they’re not in King Richard’s way,’ I insisted. ‘Their father’s bigamy ensured that.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dan. ‘’Tis true. Though what he was thinking of... But he was ever reckless, they say, old King Edward – especially when it came to women...’

  I turned to Hugh.

  ‘And how could you repeat such evil about him. You know him.’

  Hugh glared at me.

  ‘Know who?’

  ‘King Richard, of course. You know what he’s like.
’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘Then you know he could never do such a thing.’

  Hugh’s face betrayed no emotion. But he raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Do I?’

  My hands curled into fists as I leapt to my feet.

  Murrey, dislodged, sprang up too, her lips drawn back in a snarl, baring her white dagger-like teeth.

  I grasped hold of her collar before she lunged towards Hugh.

  Restraining her gave me time to think – about what, on impulse, I had been about to do. About the mistake it would have been. And what my then master had said when I had resorted to violence against Hugh once before.

  With King Richard’s words circling in my brain, I brought my breathing back under control, though my heart still thumped against my ribs, the torrents of blood rushing in my ears.

  I drew myself up to what height I possessed.

  ‘I’ll listen to no more of this... of this treasonous talk,’ I said with all the dignity I could muster. And, dragging a wriggling Murrey along with me, I stalked out of the chamber.

  Behind me, Hugh’s laughter pealed out, pursuing me as I headed off into the night. And as I strode across the cobbled yard towards the street, his shout assaulted my ears:

  ‘What are you so upset about? By the devil, I’ve heard the boys are both brats – just like their good-for-nothing milksop cousin.’

  11 Return of the King

  I slept little for the rest of that night and showed up to work on the morrow bleary-eyed and yawning.

  Simon, whose watch ended long after mine, wondered at my shortness of temper as we laboured together over the printing press, helping Master de Vries sort the tiny letters in their cases, positioning the vast sheets of paper, raising and lowering the weighty platen. When we ceased work for dinner, he took me aside before we entered the dining hall.