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

by Alex Marchant

  ‘That was a long time ago, Matt. People can change – they often do.’

  ‘But if he was a bully then... Your Grace, please can you stop this marriage?’

  King Richard was quiet for a moment, as though considering. But then –

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot. Alys is a ward of Dame Grey herself, not the crown. Alys’s mother was one of her ladies. When... when Elizabeth was Queen, she arranged the marriage to secure the loyalty of Ralph’s family for the King, my brother. She has not chosen to break the betrothal since.’

  ‘But now you are King, Your Grace. Surely you could step in and prevent it?’

  ‘But, Matthew, as King I also need the loyalty of the Soulsbys and their allies. That has not changed. Nor, to my knowledge, has Elizabeth’s mind on the matter. And you may not have cause to worry – love can grow after marriage, even when that is arranged. I saw it with my parents.’

  His gaze drifted towards the fire’s glow as he took a sip from his wine-glass.

  I knew I should leave it there, that I shouldn’t argue with a king – no matter how much familiarity he had allowed, both this evening and in times past. But for Alys’s sake – and maybe the wine I’d drunk was half to blame – I carried on, not thinking at first what I was saying.

  ‘But, Your Grace, you married for love, didn’t you?’

  His glance swung back to me, and I realized what I had done – barely more than a month after he had buried his beloved wife.

  But in his face was no anger at my words, if that was what I feared. Far worse was the deep sorrow inscribed there, in the shadow darkening his eyes and the twisting of his mouth.

  It was a moment before he mastered his emotion and said in a soft voice,

  ‘So I did, Matt, so I did. But a king must look on these matters differently – as I have learnt. Marriages are not just about two people. They’re about families, dynasties, countries even.’ He swallowed another mouthful of wine, before placing the glass on a small table at his elbow. ‘My brother also married for love – twice. And see the outcome of that.’

  He chose a sweetmeat from a dish on the table and leaned down to entice Murrey away from my feet. As always when food was offered, she deserted me to go and beg for the tidbit. The firelight glinted in the King’s eyes as the hound danced her pirouette for him.

  ‘It may be that you and Alys can remain friends after her marriage.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be possible, my lord. I cannot think Lord Soulsby would allow it. He objected to my letters before.’

  My words, the tone – their impudence struck me to shame, but it was too late to bite them back. Yet the King remained calm, as Murrey sat to attention, awaiting another treat.

  ‘I was sorry to send you away, Matt. But I could not jeopardize Lord Soulsby’s loyalty to my brother. His family had turned traitor before and Edward had worked hard to win them back to his cause. It is difficult always to keep noble men happy, as I have found too. Had it been up to me, I would have laughed off Hugh’s tale-telling and kept you with us.’ He coaxed Murrey to dance again, slipping her another morsel and smoothing the dark red tufts of her fur. ‘My wife especially was sad to see you leave.’

  ‘She was very kind to me. From my first days at the castle.’

  Silence enshrouded us.

  The King’s hand rested still on Murrey’s poll, his own head bowed.

  Was he caught up in memories, as was I? Of that first time I had seen the Queen – Duchess as she was then – step down from her carriage to the cheers of the household. When she spoke to me that evening of all my troubles and asked me to sing. Her tears as she listened to the French lovers’ lament.

  Perhaps, again, I should not have spoken. Perhaps my shame and regret goaded me, making me think I could make amend. Once more the words spilled out before I could check them.

  ‘Her Grace told me then – the first time I saw her – that if she were to die, she wished that you would marry again.’

  Another silence.

  Then he said softly, ‘All those weeks of her illness, we did not speak of it – I – I could not speak of it.’

  ‘She said – she said, it was so that you might be happy again, and because she hoped Ed would have a brother or sister.’

  He raised his head and the pain in his eyes was raw. And as he spoke again it was as though I, a boy only, were not there.

  ‘My wife dearly wanted more children. But after Ed was born, the physicians counselled her against it – warned us it might kill her. And then, when Ed died —’

  He broke off. Reaching for his wine-glass, he sat back again and took another gulp. Twisting the glass about in his hands, he watched the swirl of the crimson liquid for a moment or two.

  ‘My advisors also urge me to marry again, that I must have an heir. But – it is too soon, much too soon. And not, of course, my niece. That poisonous rumour...’

  I knew, of course, what he meant.

  It had been all round London, not long after Queen Anne’s death. The whisper that the King planned to marry his brother’s daughter, Elizabeth – to gain an heir, to appease the Woodvilles – to thwart Henry Tudor’s plans. So far had the rumour spread – it even reached the ears of my family in faraway York – that the King had been forced to deny it publicly in front of the mayor and citizens of London.

  Alys had been most indignant, both for the King and for Elizabeth. She abandoned the code and her handwriting became spiky and ragged, the quill point almost tearing through the paper at her angry underlinings.

  How ridiculous it is! She’s his niece, and he’s so much older than her, and she’s... well, if her brother could not be king, what advantage could King Richard gain from marrying her? Why do people not think before they repeat these things?

  Elizabeth is mortified. She says that she has grown to like her uncle, now that she knows him better, but she could never love him like that! She’d much rather marry ‘her’ Duke Manuel. He’s nearly the same age as her, and her friend Lady Brampton has told her so much about the beauties of Portugal. She so longs to marry. She can’t understand why it’s taking so long to arrange...

  Watching King Richard now, perhaps that delay was no mystery. He had been quick to dismiss his gentlemen, as though he had no heart to continue his business. A tiredness hung about him, a heaviness, that brought to mind the tail-end of our Christmas-time at his brother’s court.

  And also into my mind nudged the image of my own father in the weeks after my mother’s death – when he was not seen at his workplace for days on end. It had been as though he could not bear to think that his own life would go on as normal. Only a visit from his great friend the mayor persuaded him that he must pick himself up and carry on – otherwise his business would fail and his children starve. And then, later, came the gentle smiles and soft words of the nursemaid who became my new mother.

  Again, unbidden – except perhaps by the wine – I spoke up.

  ‘My father married again. Some months after my mother died. For weeks, though, I think he wished he could join her. But now he is very happy. And I have another brother.’

  This time, perhaps, I did not need to worry that I had spoken out of turn. A faint smile played around the King’s lips – hard to discern in the fading daylight and the flickering fireglow, but it was there.

  He raised his wine-glass as though to toast me.

  ‘All my advisors say the same, Matt – all have a similar story to tell me. Yours, at least, I know to be true. And I thank you for it.’

  Placing the glass down again... was that a sigh as he did?

  ‘Were my life to end tomorrow – yes, sometimes I wish I could join my wife and son. But life goes on... Your father is a fortunate man. To have found happiness twice in his life. And to have such a son as you.’

  I thanked the saints for the failing light. Colour was rising in my cheeks and a boy of my age was too old to be seen blushing like a child.

  The King perhaps didn’t notice.


  ‘Well, I shall make a bargain with you. I shall consider your advice on remarriage if – ’ I waited for what I should have to do – ‘if you continue to wear my badge loyally and come to me again when I am in need.’

  ‘But, Your Grace...’

  Now I was confused, as his hand stretched out towards me, the silver boar on the palm gleaming in the firelight. The words of our last conversation at Northampton, when he had first handed it to me, tumbled through my brain.

  ‘Your Grace, it was I who came to you with my request.’

  His half-smile became a half-laugh.

  ‘Aye, so it was. And yet it seems to have been you who has helped me. At my present time of need. So I shall make an addition to our bargain. I will ask Dame Grey to reconsider Alys’s marriage. I can promise nothing, mind – legally I have no right to ask, so do not raise your hopes or hers too high. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace. Thank you.’

  I took the badge and pinned it to my doublet in its usual place, over my heart. I sensed his eyes following the practised movement.

  ‘You still wear it proudly, I see.’

  ‘Aye, sir, and always shall. And... and loyalty will always bind me.’

  Those words of his motto had not crossed my lips in two long years since riding with... with another King on the road to St Albans – Edward, the boy King as was... When he had passed me the fragment of parchment with this King’s signature on it. That scrap remained in my bundle with other treasures I had collected, safe alongside all the letters from my friends in the Order, Ed’s drawings, the book his mother had given me and the shiny coin Master Ratcliffe had handed me at our last brief meeting.

  King Richard thrust out his hand, but to my surprise, not for me to kiss his great ring of state, rather to shake my own.

  ‘I thank you for that, Matt. Loyalty freely given is beyond any price. I have not forgotten that you were ever a true friend to my son.’

  ‘And he – and you – were ever friends to me.’

  Then all my sadness from the past year welled up in me.

  I bowed low to hide the tears that were shining in my eyes, and, as the King bid me farewell, I backed out of the room, still bowing, as I had seen the servant do earlier. Minutes later, as I passed through the towering gatehouse of the palace, it struck me that, for the first time ever, I had not sung for my lord, the King. Would I ever have another chance?

  That night I begged a rushlight from Master Lyndsey and sat up late composing, for once, a letter to Elen. It saddened me that I could not write with better news, but I hoped that such a promise from the King would be welcome. But I received no reply. Only some time later did I learn that the Lady Elizabeth and her household had already travelled north to join Ed’s cousins, the young earls of Warwick and Lincoln, at Sheriff Hutton.

  Alys’s letters also ceased. Did she no longer want to write to me as I had failed in my task? Or had she been warned off because of her coming marriage?

  The lack of letters from Roger – also of course at Sheriff Hutton – was nothing strange. Perhaps the Order was truly at an end, despite our solemn oaths, and I would have to seek for new friends in my future life. But I resolved that I would ever be true to my own pledges.

  And so spring turned towards summer.

  16 Dangerous Days

  The month of May drew on and the King left the capital as Elen had written, wending his way north to his castle at Nottingham, crouched on its crag at the very centre of his kingdom. There he seemed to be waiting.

  For rumours were being blown about London like the blossom of fruit trees in my master’s garden, scattered by every early summer squall. Henry Tudor would invade. Henry Tudor was on his way. Henry Tudor would land in the south, the east, the west. Never the north, of course. Troops were gathering at all compass points, ready to march to the defence of the King and his kingdom wherever they were needed.

  One letter I did receive that summer was from my brother Fred, telling me that he was joining a company of archers. His words brimmed with his excitement.

  We are to be ready at half a day’s notice, with all our gear to hand, to march wheresoever needed to serve the King.

  Our father speaks with pride of his grandfather, who told his tales of the great battle at Agincourt, where he fought with the fifth King Henry. He says, if Tudor lands in England, I too will be fighting the French, as it is only they who support him in his claim to the English throne. Or perhaps King Richard will take the fight to France. Then I will travel to foreign lands like you and our great-grandsire.

  My brother, an archer fighting for the King.

  Hugh Soulsby – last seen wearing the King’s livery.

  Troops of soldiers in the colours of great lords daily marching through the London streets.

  Enormous cannons, barrels of gunpowder, piles of armour and weapons, hauled on wagons from the Tower out towards the city gates, or shipped on barges across the river.

  Everyone was ready to fight for our good King Richard.

  Except me – an apprentice only, fingers stained with ink, not calloused by the bowstring, neither donning armour nor gathering equipment ready to rally to the royal banner. And yet I wore his badge. How could I serve my two masters loyally?

  I redoubled my efforts with my wooden sword, ashamed though I was that it was all I had, that and Master Ashley’s book on swordplay. Simon, whose ardour for weapons training had cooled after the great rebellion, now joined me when he could, fired by my tales of glorious battles and hard-won victories, half-remembered from my time with Master Fleete.

  We hid away from the other apprentices, in whatever secluded corner of our master’s garden we could find. There, for the first time, I bested another boy with my sword. But I had learned much from Ed too, and helped Simon to his feet, returning his chestnut weapon and praising him on his first attempts.

  My footwork was already better than before, after almost two years of lone study, and Simon and I trained hard in our free hours, together exploring how we might improve. During the working day, I also took on more of the strenuous jobs, lifting, carrying, bales, barrels, the heavy bolts of cloth, the weighty platen of the printing press. I could feel myself growing fitter, stronger, as the summer wore on.

  Then in the middle days of August came the news for which all appeared to have been waiting.

  Henry Tudor had landed – in Wales. Almost as far away from the capital as he could.

  With so much distance to cross between there and the centre of government – and with King Richard awaiting him already in the middle of the country – his must be an impossible task. As the King summoned to his side men from every part of his kingdom, east, west, south and north, surely the might of his army would prove too much for Tudor to challenge.

  And yet, and yet... rumours again swirled about the streets of London, whisperings that all might not be well, that not all the lords would rally to the King’s cause.

  ‘They say some have not forgotten their Lancastrian allegiances,’ Master Lyndsey told Master de Vries one morning as Simon and I laboured over the press, printing pages for a small religious book destined to be sold in country fairs. Though great matters were afoot, life and work continued as normal.

  ‘What, despite the King’s efforts to unify the country, and those of his brother before him?’

  Master de Vries still did not understand English politics despite almost two years in London.

  ‘No, indeed,’ snorted the steward. ‘Or perhaps that is just an excuse. Perhaps King Richard simply has not done enough for them personally.’

  ‘Do you think that is so?’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t always hand out plum jobs and lands and costly gifts to buy men’s loyalty as was done before. Nor does he uphold their claims against the common folk just because they are wealthy landowners. For him, justice is justice, no matter whether you are rich or poor.’

  ‘And so he is resented by them?’ Master de Vries shook his h
ead in sadness. ‘That in these days it should come to that!’

  ‘Such men want to cling to the old ways,’ said Master Lyndsey, taking up a close-printed page to check while he spoke. ‘They complain that it is no longer enough to be of the right family, to have been born to power and wealth – they can no longer expect to keep them always. Nor to rule in courts of law as was their habit.’

  ‘But the ordinary folk. They must be contented with this new order of things?’

  Master Lyndsey laughed.

  ‘There’s little I know about such folk beyond the city walls. Perhaps it means little to them what King Richard does for their sakes – even making his laws in English so they can understand. But the merchants and artisans of London, now – they are well pleased with King Richard. His laws protect them and their trade – in England and abroad. To be sure, Matthew,’ he turned to me, as I snatched a break from the heavy work to listen in, ‘your father in York must feel the same? Merchants are merchants, wherever they may be.’

  Indeed my father did – that I could confirm. In his letters he told of how his business was thriving, and how the new Council of the North was governing well, allowing the towns to prosper under the peace with the Scots. And he proclaimed, like Fred before him, that the free men of York and its surroundings would answer the King’s summons at a moment’s notice.

  And yet the rumours continued to swirl. Ordinary men might be ready and willing to fight and die for their King, but perhaps not all the powerful nobles who commanded them.

  Before another day passed, my mind was made up. I might be a boy only, just an apprentice, no knight or seasoned warrior, but I would travel to my King’s side, to serve him in whatever way I could.

  But first I had to gain my other master’s permission.

  I found him alone in his office after breakfast.