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

by Alex Marchant

  A short silence. Then,

  ‘But this is to Master Kendall. Why are you wasting my time, boy?’

  His voice was sharp.

  I hung my head still, waiting for his rebuke. Why had I been so stupid?

  But then came his familiar bark of a laugh.

  ‘And just asking that you be found a job here.’ Relief washed through me at his change of tone. ‘Away from any danger, of course.’

  My cheeks burned again and my fists curled into balls. Despite my earlier self-reproach, I leapt to my feet, ready to protest.

  The King was leaning back against the table, watching me levelly, a half-smile on his lips.

  ‘Nay, boy, do not be so quick to anger. Your master asks John to find you a job wherever you may be useful to me – as you are so keen to serve and so full of youthful foolishness. But, for himself, Master Ashley asks that you be kept from harm as he has many uses for you.’

  I was not so used to his gentle mocking ways as I had once been and I jibbed at the words.

  ‘Do not heed him, Your Grace. I want to serve you in the battle – I know it is coming.’

  ‘Yes, it’s coming. Tomorrow – did you know that?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I swallowed, but found my throat dry. I had seen the camp, the soldiers, the weapons, but had no idea the battle would be so soon.

  The King, however, appeared untroubled.

  ‘Aye. Tudor and his forces are just a few miles from here, at Merevale my scouts tell me. Tomorrow we shall meet face to face with our armies at our backs.’

  ‘Your Grace, I – I wish also to fight at your side.’

  ‘I thank you for your brave loyalty, Matt, but you cannot fight. You have no armour.’

  ‘I have my sallet and my jack, like many of your men. Master Ashley gave me money for them – he must have meant for me to wear them in the fight.’

  ‘Or perhaps to protect you from the jibes and buffets of the older men. They may not take seriously your attempt to join them.’

  I had no reply to that after my reception at Leicester. But the King considered me a moment, and his tone softened as he said,

  ‘Yet, Master Wansford, you seem to have grown since last I saw you, though that was so short a time ago. Or is it just your sallet that makes you appear taller?’

  I still wore my helmet, though in the presence of the King. Hastily I slipped it from my head and, to cover my embarrassment, said,

  ‘My mother used to say that spring and summer are the time for growing, my lord. And I have been training hard to serve you.’

  ‘Training?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, as best I can. When Master Ashley can spare me from my duties.’

  ‘That is commendable, Matthew. Every man should be prepared for war in case the call should come.’ I smiled inside at his use of the word ‘man’, but then he added, ‘Yet I have army enough, as you see. Brackenbury came with his London troops, and the Earl of Northumberland at last with his men from the north. Even Master Kendall will strap on armour tomorrow, though he is a man of words, not of the sword. How could one boy...?’

  The rumours that had been circling in London sprang into my mind.

  ‘But they say, Your Grace, that some great lords may not rally to your banner.’

  ‘Is that what you have heard? And you feel that you can make up for the failures of such men?’

  ‘They say the Welsh chieftains are marching with Henry Tudor. Even perhaps Lord Stanley...’

  A shadow flitted across the King’s face, then was gone.

  ‘Lord Stanley? Aye, his family have betrayed my family before. In the past they have waited to see which way the wind will blow. But this time he will stand firm. He and his brother William... They will see that my army numbers several thousand more than Tudor’s rabble of French mercenaries. They will see that the wind blows for the rightful King of England, not that half-Welsh traitor, no matter that he has the ear and money of the King of France. They will stand firm.’

  ‘Yet Lady Stanley, Your Grace – is she not Tudor’s mother? Did she not plot against you before?’

  ‘Aye, lad, she did. But I spared her then and let her lands remain in her family. Her husband now speaks for her loyalty. And his son who is in my camp speaks for his.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘His son, Lord Strange, Tudor’s stepbrother, is here at my pleasure. He is my guest,’ a wry smile, ‘or my hostage if you prefer. My brother Edward and I – we have forgiven the Stanleys often in the past. Now it does no harm to have a little insurance for their honour. He can remind his father and his uncle who has been the source of their prosperity, and who will reward them richly in the future. Sadly it seems that is the language such men understand.’

  He pushed himself up from the table’s edge and went to sit again in the great chair.

  ‘But, Matthew, it is your fate we must attend to now. I have thought of the way you can best serve me. Are you ready to do my bidding?’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

  ‘You shall help me by returning to London with an important message to your master.’

  ‘But, my lord —’ I protested.

  ‘Matthew, I would not have you fight tomorrow, for all your training and your keenness and your leather armour. You are only a boy —’ he raised his hand to stall my further objections, ‘and I may have other uses for you once we have won our victory here. You have proved yourself valuable in my service before, and as King, I think perhaps I can make further use of you – if Master Ashley agrees to release you. I imagine Lord Soulsby will have forgotten your youthful misdemeanours by now, and surely can have no reason against my employing you again.’

  What did his last words mean?

  ‘Does Alys not have to marry Ralph now?’

  ‘Dame Grey agreed to consider the matter. I have not yet had word of how it shall turn out. But Ralph and his father ride with Sir William Stanley. If all goes well tomorrow, they may look to be rewarded with more lands and wealth than even Alys Langdown can bring to them – and as King perhaps I can find another, greater heiress to satisfy them.’

  Was he serious? His expression made me uncertain. And did Alys herself – far away as I believed in Sheriff Hutton – know anything of the matter? Yet I was sad for that other, unknown heiress – if she existed.

  Whatever the case, though, I had to take the King at his word.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace. I will be for ever in your debt.’

  ‘It is the privilege of a king to be able to reward all his followers, whether big or small, and one that I enjoy. But in the meantime, you can serve me best by delivering my message.’

  This time I didn’t protest. I would do my duty as my sovereign saw fit to order. Even if it were just a ploy to keep me safe from the fighting...

  King Richard selected a quill and parchment from among the mess of writing equipment on the table and set to work writing with his own hand. This was a thing unseen by me before, as it had been with Master Ashley in London. At normal times both my masters relied on their secretaries. He took his time, consulting a book that lay among the papers, and it was several minutes before he folded the small sheet and dripped molten wax upon it to seal it. Then he walked around the desk and handed the note to me, together with a small leather purse.

  ‘There, Matthew, my message, with expenses for your journey.’ The purse clinked as my fingers closed around it. ‘You must deliver the message into Master Ashley’s own hands. Into no one else’s. Do not use it to find your way into the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury – or of the Emperor or the Pope in Rome. No more deceptions please.’

  I laughed and stowed the parchment square and purse in my pouch.

  ‘No, Your Grace. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do not worry. It was but a small deception – and I’m grateful that it brought me such a messenger as you. You may perhaps travel more easily than one of my men, should tomorrow —’

  He broke off, and perched on
ce more on the edge of the table, fiddling with his signet ring.

  ‘’Do you still sing, Matthew?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Though —’ Heat rushed to my face again. Once or twice in recent weeks my voice had faltered at the higher notes.

  ‘Though you find that you are growing up? It comes to us all in time.’

  ‘I can sing as well at the moment – I think. Would you like me to tonight?’

  ‘Why not? For old time’s sake. It may be the last time before...’

  He swung away and poured deep red wine from a flagon into a pair of engraved silver goblets on the table. Handing one to me, he sat again in the oaken chair and raised his goblet.

  ‘To old times. And old friends.’

  We both drank. As the warmth of the wine coursed down my throat, I remembered other toasts he had made – at the boar hunt, the night before we had left Middleham, that evening in St Albans. Old times, indeed, and friends who were no longer with us.

  I took another sip, then returned the goblet to the table.

  ‘What would you have me sing, Your Grace? I have no lute with me.’

  ‘You are still learning it?’ I nodded. ‘Master Ashley as ever keeps his promises. Something perhaps in English, Matt – our own fair tongue. And nothing sad on this eve, in case my soldiers shall think me melancholy.’

  As he settled more comfortably in the chair, I reflected that such a song would be suitable for such a man – a King who was the first to write his laws in English, not in French, so ordinary people could understand them. And some in his kingdom found fault with that?

  The first song I chose, in praise of our Holy Father, I had learnt at the Minster, one of very few the choir master had taught us that were not in Latin. But the second Master Petyt, the dancing master at Middleham, had himself composed, in memory, he had said, of his own youth spent touring from one castle to another, teaching lords’ children to dance. The jauntiness of the melody set the King’s foot tapping, and to my relief my voice soared to its heights without failing.

  As the last notes died away, a rustling arose behind me.

  Murrey, stretched out at my feet throughout, shot up and sprang towards the sound, snarling, her sharp white teeth bared, her lithe red body aquiver. The King also rose, a hand on his sword hilt, and I swung round to face whoever, whatever, had made the noise.

  It was Lord Lovell, frozen halfway through the entrance, the pale curtain raised in one hand. Amazement was sketched across his face as he eyed the hound, standing bristling in his path.

  Before I could call Murrey back and scold her for her ill manners, the King laughed.

  ‘Let that be a warning to you, Francis. How should she know you are not a spy of Tudor’s come to murder me?’

  ‘If I were, Richard, would I come through the front door?’

  ‘Then perhaps you must station guards all around my tent tonight. Or should my safety be left to one small hound alone? A brave little thing, is she not? And to think she was one of Florette’s “runts”.’

  Lord Lovell edged forward, letting the curtain fall behind him, all the while keeping a wary eye on Murrey.

  I whistled to her and she padded back to me. The whites of her eyes no longer showed and the fur on her back was smooth once again, the faintest rumble only in her throat. The King threw her a morsel of something from a platter on the table and she caught it and devoured it hungrily.

  ‘Runt she may be,’ said his lordship, ‘but perhaps she should lie across your threshold tonight. You could do worse. Your young squire has asked to be allowed to join his uncle.’

  ‘Young Hugh?’ asked King Richard. I started at the name. ‘And have you given him leave?’

  ‘I thought it unwise to. After all, if Lord Stanley...’

  His mouth clammed shut as his gaze slid towards me.

  ‘We have one guest already, Francis,’ the King replied, unperturbed. ‘We will have no need of more. Let him go – if he can find his way to Stanley’s camp through the darkness.’

  ‘If you are sure, Richard?’

  The King nodded.

  With a final glance at Murrey, settled again at my feet, her head on her paws, Lord Lovell ducked out through the curtain back into the night.

  The King sat back in his chair and swallowed a mouthful of wine, his face thoughtful.

  I found my voice, heedless of whether I should speak.

  ‘Hugh Soulsby is here?’

  ‘As you heard – at least for the present.’

  He watched me as I struggled to keep my feelings from showing on my face. But the light cast by the torches and the candles on the table was enough for his sharp eyes.

  ‘You have not forgiven him?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  My question in reply was impertinent, but as so often, he did not notice – or chose not to.

  ‘Perhaps. It is a long time ago. And maybe it was for the best. ‘

  ‘That I should be sent away?’

  ‘You have made a good life for yourself in London. You will learn a great deal with Master Ashley, have many opportunities other young men would give much to have.’

  ‘If you say so, Your Grace.’ Thinking back over all that I had missed these past two years – time with my friends, training as a squire like Roger – and Hugh – a touch of insolence crept into my voice. ‘But perhaps not everyone forgives as easily as you.’

  ‘It is not always easy to forgive, Matt. But sometimes it is necessary and repays the effort.’

  ‘Will you forgive any who betray you tomorrow? Will you pardon Henry Tudor? Lord Stanley, if he should prove traitor?’

  ‘Lord Stanley will stand firm. And there will be time enough after the battle to think of forgiveness – if it is needed.’

  Did he truly believe his own words? I could not tell. But his calm half-smile made me ashamed of my outburst.

  ‘But in the meantime, Matthew, you must be on your way. Your badge will take you safely back through my army. Find your way south to the old road that is Watling Street – that will take you directly to London. And mind you go straight to Master Ashley – that is most important.’

  Once again it occurred to me that this supposedly vital message was no more than a ruse to send me away from the coming battle.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I threw myself down on my knees.

  ‘Not tonight, my lord. Let me take Hugh’s place – let me be your page again and sleep at your threshold. Murrey and me – as Lord Lovell said. You know you can count on our loyalty.’

  At first my plea was met only with silence. Perhaps my earlier words had angered the King? But then he spoke again.

  ‘Very well, Matt. You may act as my page one more time. You and your brave little hound. But you must be away early, at first light – before the camp is fully awake.’

  His amused tone reassured me he didn’t hold my speech against me. But was he remembering, as I did now, the last time I had been his page? That morning at Northampton, when he had had to nudge me awake. When his life could have been in danger from the Woodville plotters.

  Surely he didn’t recall it. But I told myself I must not sleep at all this night, despite my long journey.

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace, I won’t fail you.’

  The rest of that evening was a blur of busyness. Lord Lovell soon returned, along with Master Ratcliffe and other gentlemen I did not know. Before Murrey could do more than growl, I hauled her over to sit alongside me on a stool beside the campbed. There I shared with her the last of the food I had carried from London, while the King and his men discussed the morrow.

  I understood little of what they said in their quiet deliberations. After a while I took up a leather-bound book of hours from the oaken chest and sat turning the pages, until the King should be ready to retire. I marvelled long at an exquisite picture of Our Lady within, kneeling by a golden-haired, gilt-winged angel, a prayerbook open upon her desk, even as this book lay open before me.

  But then my e
ye was caught by one text towards the end, headed by a fabulous capital letter scrolled in the brilliant murrey and blue of the King’s colours. The beautiful handwritten Latin beseeched merciful Lord Jesus to free his servant, King Richard, from every sorrow and trouble and from all the plots of his enemies, and to defend him from all evil and all peril, past, present and to come.

  I read the prayer over again and again. How much would my lord need such help in just a few hours’ time?

  From time to time the guards outside snapped to attention, and a soldier bearing a message, or some sly man, sidled through the curtain into the tent. At first I strained to hear the reports, but before long the effort was beyond me. The past days’ fatigues took their toll. Despite my resolve to remain awake to protect my King, I must have drifted into sleep, my back leaning against a costly tapestry, my hand still resting on Murrey’s head, close against my thigh.

  ‘Matt.’ King Richard’s voice seeped into my brain as though through fog or from far distant. ‘Matthew?’

  I stumbled to my feet. Murrey grumbled as my movement disturbed her.

  The King stood before me. The tent was empty of his gentlemen, and shadows danced within it as the torches guttered and burned down.

  I rubbed my eyes.

  ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘It is time to sleep, Matthew. A mattress has been placed ready for you.’ The brand behind me had long ago died, and his face was in darkness. ‘Take what rest you may. It will be a long day tomorrow – for both of us.’

  His hand was upon my elbow, leading me towards the doorway. There, just within the curtain, lay a palliasse, covered over with the blanket I had carried with me from London. As I lowered myself on to it gratefully and my eyelids likewise drooped, I was too sleepy to protest as I heard the King say,

  ‘Sleep well, Matt. I shall wake you in good time, never fear.’

  19 Blood Moon

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I shake my head. But the sound is still there.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  In my head.

  I turn.