‘Go to Nottingham, Master Wansford? You?’
Master Ashley’s eyes narrowed as though I had asked him something he did not quite understand.
‘Aye, master. To aid King Richard in his fight against Henry Tudor.’
‘But, Matthew, the King will have an army of trained soldiers.’
‘I have been training, sir, ever since I entered your service.’
‘I know, lad, and you have done well to. But such troops train together under experienced captains. They know their commanders and how to obey in the heat of battle.’
My fear had been that Master Ashley would view my efforts as mere play, but he had not simply laughed at me. I was heartened by that, and resolved not to be put off.
‘But, sir, men say that not all those commanders will prove loyal to His Grace. The Welsh chieftains have not yet moved to challenge Tudor on his march. They say perhaps even Lord Stanley —’ I hesitated, remembering what the King himself had said about rumours – and this rumour was about one of his closest advisors – ‘they say even Lord Stanley may play him false. Perhaps I can’t make much of a difference, but he may need all the men he can gather.’
‘That may be. These are dangerous days, Master Wansford, dangerous days.’
‘Then let me go, sir, I beg you. I swear I will return once the King is victorious.’
A few seconds of silence. Master Ashley pursed his lips while he considered. Then,
‘Very well, Matthew. You may attend the King. It may be that you will somehow be of service. But you must promise to keep yourself out of harm’s way as much as you are able. You may take a note from me to Master Kendall. He will know how best you can serve His Grace – and you must follow any instructions he gives you to the letter.’
I stammered my thanks, not thinking too much on his words and only grateful for his leave to travel. In a few minutes he had, with his own hand, written a short message, imprinting the wax seal with his signet. He gave it to me, along with a handful of coins.
‘Go to the armourer on Cheapside and buy yourself jack and sallet for your protection. Ask our cooks for provisions for the journey. And take the pony you brought with you from the north. I understand the King is mustering his army at the town of Leicester. Set off today and you may be able to ride there with men at arms from our city.’
He watched as I placed the money and note in my pouch, then added, his face sombre,
‘Fare thee well on your journey and in your service, Matthew. And mind you obey Master Kendall in all he says.’
I swept off my cap and bowed, then hurried up to my attic room to collect some things for the journey. I was sorry not to speak to Simon before I left, but knew I should hasten on my way, and somehow felt this journey was one I must take alone. But I spared some moments to write a few lines of explanation to Alys at Sheriff Hutton where I assumed her to be.
It was only as I wrote the final words of code that the seriousness of what I was undertaking truly came home to me.
If I should not return, think kindly of me. I will have remained true to the Order’s oath of loyalty and to the King.
Qtdfqyd gnsix rj!*
Your friend always,
Matthew Wansford
Before my thoughts could dwell further on the dangers I might face, I sealed up my note and dropped it with Master Ashley’s letters before making my way down to the kitchens. Half an hour later, I was astride Bess, riding to the heart of the working quarter of the city, a bag of food in my saddle bag, faithful Murrey at my heel.
17 The Camp
London had been busy in its preparations for war. As I waited impatiently at the armourers while men for the levies were kitted out before me. As some strapped on their padded jacks, tried sturdy sallets on for size on recently shorn heads, hefted new-made weapons. As their friends and colleagues, veterans of other battles, jeered and catcalled, arrayed already in their own gear, worn, but buffed and burnished for this coming campaign.
As I followed the long column of troops out under the dark stone arch of Newgate, their baggage wagons rumbling across the cobbles behind. As the gathered crowds, faces darkened with anger, cheered or shouted encouragement.
‘Long live King Richard!’
‘Death to the traitor!’
‘Tear those French dogs to shreds!’
‘A York!’
Yet it was all as nothing to the bustle and tumult as I rode Bess into the town of Leicester. The company of soldiers I had journeyed with halted in fields outside, awaiting further orders, but I pushed on, past outlying houses, towards the squat gateway through the town walls.
All around us streamed men in leather armour and bold liveries, hollering to soldiers coming out of the town and bumping against us.
‘Out of the way, boy!’
‘Move that scrawny animal off the road!’
Nervous, Bess shifted beneath me as we passed beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis. Once out of the darkness of the archway, I slipped down from her back and led her into the empty courtyard of a nearby church, its grey spire rising tall into the cloudless blue sky. With one hand stroking her velvet nose to calm her, I surveyed the scene before us.
The main street leading into the heart of the town was lined with shops, but today their store-fronts were battened up out of the way of a seething crush of men and beasts. It was amazing that any were managing to move at all, so pressed were they within that narrow lane. But as I watched some made minute headway in one or other direction.
Everywhere pennants fluttered aloft alongside the sharp steel of pikes, harness jingled, men shouted and laughed, oxen lowed as they towed creaking carts. Women and children leaned out of overhanging windows, their mouths agape at the sights. Some waved kerchiefs and hallooed like the crowds in London. Other faces were clouded with worry or fear. Over everything lay the reek of sweat mingled with the choking dust kicked up by all those feet and hooves and wheels on this warm August afternoon.
How would I find my way to Master Kendall through this strange and busy place?
As I hesitated, a more enticing scent wafted into my nostrils.
A girl about my own age was walking towards me, a tray loaded with rich brown pastries suspended by thick cords from her neck. The air above them shimmered. They must have come straight from the oven.
‘Mutton pasty, master?’ she asked. ‘Only a penny each.’
My mouth watered. I still had bread and cheese in my pack from Master Ashley’s kitchen, but it was a long time since I had tasted hot foot.
As I reached in my pouch for the coin, she wrapped a pastry in a clean cloth. I took it and thanked her. And here was a chance to discover what I needed to know.
‘The King?’ she replied, as I sank my teeth into the juicy pie. Warm gravy trickled from the corner of my mouth. ‘I watched him ride out over Bow Bridge with his army this morning. A very beautiful sight it was – with crowds cheering and the sun shining on his golden crown and all the knights’ armour.’
I wiped my chin with the cloth.
‘He’s already left? Then who are all these men?’
‘Oh, they’re just the stragglers, I suppose. I heard his lordship of Northumberland arrived only late yesterday, and some men from the south today.’
‘The army must be very large.’
‘Many thousands strong, I think. The King should easily beat the traitor. They say most of Tudor’s men are in the pay of the French King or else are Welsh rebels.’
She spat on the dusty ground.
Heartened, I asked another question that had often been in my mind during my long ride north.
‘Have the men of York joined the King already? They would wear livery bearing the white rose and sound like me when they spoke.’ I now knew from long experience that my accent still marked me, and the northern speech of Fred and his fellows might be even more obvious.
She was quiet for a moment, as though counting back through all the soldiers she had come across over the past fe
w days.
‘I don’t remember any such. But perhaps they were camped in the fields outside town. My father told me not to venture beyond the walls to sell my pasties.’
I thanked her again. After asking for directions, I finished the last crumbs of the tasty pie and moved off to find the road the King had taken hours before. Leading Bess and with Murrey sticking close, I pushed once more into the stream of men and animals that flowed through the streets of this small town.
As we skirted the high wall of a priory, its bells tolled the hour of vespers. I would have to hurry if I wished to find the King before darkness fell. Minutes later I was astride Bess once again, the west gate of Leicester receding behind us as we clattered up and over a hump-backed stone bridge spanning a rushing river.
Soon, as the narrow streets opened up into wide fields, the bustle lessened, but always there were soldiers to all sides. Men in the livery of the Earl of Northumberland were still breaking their camp and loading equipment on wagons and horses, and at my questions they waved me on in the way they would soon be going. I urged Bess into a trot as we passed into the rolling, thinly wooded countryside.
The red orb of the sun was resting on the horizon ahead when I finally came upon the royal army. Two guards wielding pikes blocked my path, but stood aside at the sight of my silver boar.
As I rode on, to either side the golden evening light lapped row after row of tents spreading across fields as far as I could see. It gleamed on the steel points of stacks of pikes and spears planted on the ground between them, and sparked on the helmets of men hurrying every which way, their calls ringing through the growing dusk. As the sun started its descent below the distant hills, camp fires flared all around and wood smoke was sharp in my nostrils.
Bess tossed her head in alarm as a strident clanging rang out to one side. A burly man was hammering at a dented breastplate, which caught and reflected beams of light from the sinking sun.
I swung down from the saddle and placed my hand on Murrey’s head. Her fur bristled against my palm. As the clamour ceased, her low growl crept up to my ears. So, also, to those of the armourer.
Turning, he ran his eyes down me, then up again to my face, before saying,
‘And whose company are you in, sir?’
Was that a hint of scorn in his voice? Yet, in the dying light his face appeared friendly enough.
‘No man’s company yet,’ I said. ‘But I seek Master John Kendall, the King’s secretary.’
Again I tapped the badge pinned to my doublet.
He peered at it, then pointed to a ridge some distance away. Atop its crest stood a tent larger than the rest. Its sides glowed in vibrant reds and blues, and the last rays of sunlight touched to flame the sunburst and rose stitched on the banners flying from its crown. Upon one standard I spied also the proud, pure white boar of my old master, before a breath of wind folded it out of sight. Then the sun set and the camp was in darkness.
I touched my cap to the man in thanks and wound my way through the endless tents, fires, carts, piles of weapons and harness, groups of men and horses, keeping my eye always on the outline of the royal tent, black now against the deepening blue of the evening sky.
As I drew nearer, monstrous shadows loomed between lines of horses and into my nose, mixed with the mouth-watering aroma of soldiers’ stews, wafted a peculiar acrid smell. Then the flicker of a cooking fire lit up a gaping bronze mouth and slanting barrel, and I knew these were the King’s precious cannon, drawn all the way from the Tower of London. The evil stink hanging in the air was the stench of gunpowder.
More guards sprang up at my approach and this time two seized my arms. Their leader took my badge from me as I tried to explain. He frowned as he listened, the deep incised lines of the boar thrown into relief by the blazing brand in his hand.
‘Seeking Master Kendall, and in the King’s service? Are you a spy, boy?’
‘No, sir,’ I protested, but did not struggle. I had dropped Bess’s rein, but kept hold of Murrey’s collar, hearing the rumbling in her throat again. The men, though their grasp on me was tight, stood clear of her. ‘I have a message from my master in London and seek only to serve His Grace.’
The man laughed.
‘Be not so afraid, boy. One can be a spy and still serve His Grace. Several have come these past days with news of the traitor and his movements. Give me your message, then. We shall see it gets to Master Kendall.’
He held out his hand, but I shook my head.
‘Sir, it is for Master Kendall alone. My master said I must hand it to him myself.’
The man raised an eyebrow in surprise, though his surprise could not be as great as my own as these words that spilled out unplanned. Yet he did not argue. He simply nodded and, turning, strode off up the ridge, his fellows marching me along behind him. Bess remained with the other guards, but Murrey trotted along beside me, my fingers still hooked through her collar. The firelight glinted in her eyes as her muzzle swept from side to side, as though questing for a scent.
Within yards of the royal tent crouched one far smaller, its sloping sides glimmering pale in the glow of nearby fires. We halted before it as the chief guard cleared his throat and called, ‘Master Secretary?’
The tent flap was thrust aside and a familiar figure emerged, at first dark against the flickering light within. But then the guards’ torches lit up the astonishment on Master Kendall’s face.
‘Matthew! For the love of God, what are you doing here? You should be safe back home in London.’
‘You know this boy, sir? He says he has a message.’
‘Yes, yes. I know him. You may leave him with me.’
He eyed me curiously as the guards released their grip and saluted him before marching back the way we had come. As their footsteps died away, he lifted the tent flap as though to usher me through.
I stood my ground.
‘If you have a message for me, come in, Matthew – I will need light to read it by.’
But still I did not move. What prompted me, I don’t know, but I heard myself say,
‘Master, my message is for the King.’
‘The King?’
‘Aye, master. For him alone.’
He studied me a moment and I was thankful the nearest camp fires lay behind me – for I was blushing at this second lie. With my face in shadow, this tell-tale sign did not give me away, as he asked,
‘Is it from Master Ashley?’
I nodded without speaking, fearing a tremor in my voice would reveal my untruth.
‘Come, then.’
Amazed that my little subterfuge had again worked, I followed him the few paces up to the larger tent. Its now-unseen banners slapped against their poles far above. The canvas flaps were tied back, but a pale curtain was drawn across the entrance to keep out the night air. A warm glow and murmurs of voices and laughter seeped around its edges and the guards to either side snapped to attention as we approached.
‘His Grace is within?’ asked Master Kendall and, without waiting for an answer, he pulled aside the curtain and led the way inside.
Having seen the royal tent only from a distance before darkness had fallen, I was taken aback now at its size.
More than a man’s height above my head, its canopied ceiling was supported by a complex skeleton of poles, and the space beneath almost equalled the great hall in Master Ashley’s grand townhouse. In a far corner was an elaborate campbed swathed in luxurious red fabric, beside it a waist-high wooden chest on which stood a tall crucifix, several books and a variety of silver plate. To every side the canvas walls were hung with exquisitely embroidered tapestries, the vivid reds, golds, blues, greens shimmering in the gleam of the many torches lodged in iron brackets all around.
In the centre of it all, a stout oak table laden with platters, bowls, goblets and myriad papers was surrounded by standing men, the faces of several of whom I recognized as they turned towards us, Lord Lovell, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the Earl of Northumberland among
them. King Richard himself was seated in an intricately carved chair behind it.
He rose to his feet as Master Kendall and I bowed.
‘Master Wansford, Your Grace. He brings you a message.’
The King strode round the table to stand in front of us before we even straightened up.
‘Matthew?’ His eyes were wide with surprise as I raised my head. ‘Master Ashley has sent you to me?’
‘Aye, Your Grace.’
I prayed that my rising colour wouldn’t betray me now that my goal was so close. But even my small successes so far didn’t prepare me for what happened next.
The King swung round to his gentlemen.
‘Go about your business, sirs. Allow me some minutes with this boy.’
‘But Richard —’ protested Lord Lovell, but the King clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Leave us, Francis. All may become clear in time. But now he and I must be alone.’
Lord Lovell nodded, some kind of understanding dawning on his face. He and the other gentlemen bowed low and withdrew, the entrance curtain falling gently into place behind them. Only Master Kendall remained.
The King turned to him.
‘You too, John.’ Master Kendall opened his mouth as if to object, but the King raised a hand to silence him. ‘Though I would trust you with my life, John, that is not the issue here as you well know. And I have no more need of my secretary this night. Leave us.’
Master Kendall made again as though to speak, then, perhaps thinking better of it, bowed in his turn and followed the other gentlemen from the tent.
And I was alone with King Richard.
18 The Eve of Battle
He stood before me, his hand out-thrust.
I fumbled in my pouch for Master Ashley’s letter. As I drew it out, a sudden pang of guilt griped at me. How dare I, a mere apprentice, lie and cheat my way into the presence of my King?
I dropped to my knees, passing the small square of parchment to him with my head lowered.
He murmured his thanks and moved away to the table. The tiny crack of the wax seal breaking reached my ears, then the crackle of unfolding parchment.
The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2) Page 16