The Welsh, Breton, I could guess.
Sometimes English – it hit me like a blow to hear what was said.
Local voices too, now, egged along by the soldiers. After all, what was a King but a man? And one King is much like another to any common person.
Most held back, kept a respectful distance as he passed. But one or two stepped forward – and before the captain’s men could push them away, spat at his body.
‘That’s for those poor little princes,’ one man yelled.
The captain’s man just laughed as he shoved him back into the crowd with his pikestaff.
My anger rose. But I could do nothing. Not now, not yet.
Then, as I watched, trailing all those yards behind, a single soldier stepped into the road, urged on by those behind him.
Unsullied scarlet surcoat over mail. Open helmet burnished bright.
Unsheathed dagger in upraised hand. Poised to strike. The August sun glinting along its length.
‘This is for all those beatings you —’
A moment’s hesitation – by both him and me.
A familiar voice and smirk. Then surprise.
‘Look, he’s a crookback!’
And in the instant before he drove his shining blade into the lifeless body, I knew him.
Hugh Soulsby.
A moment later it was done, to the jeers of the crowd.
A fresh wound. But no spurt of blood now.
Hugh swung away, triumphant, to the acclaim of his companions, his knife held high.
I recognized a flash of blond hair, a white brow, among them, before I flung myself forwards, my hand grasping at the sword hilt hidden under my cloak.
But before I had gone three paces, kind hands pulled me back.
‘Don’t get yourself killed, lad,’ said one man.
‘There may be another chance to honour him,’ said another.
Another milestone.
Twenty more to go.
Sweet Jesus, let my task be worth this.
They had carried him into a church – a church! – and strung him up by his wrists to put him on display. And encouraged local people to come and gawp at him as he hung among the tombs of Tudor’s Lancastrian ancestors. And kept guard in case any thought to cut him down and spirit him away.
I would have done it if I could. Or even just covered his naked body.
But they kept guard outside too. And I could not leave Storm and Murrey alone.
So I hid in alleys and watched and waited. For I knew not what.
For two days and two nights.
For two long days and two long nights he hung there on display.
Another milestone. And another.
So close now.
On the third day, in the grey of the evening, the good friars had come to ask for his corpse.
They cut him down and rolled his battered body in a shroud. No coffin for this King. And they carried him away to his final resting place.
I followed them to their priory.
I had coins for them, and they let me, a boy only, no threat, enter their church.
I held the stoup as they sprinkled holy water.
My voice breaking, I sang his favourite lauda as they lowered him into his swift-cut grave. Too short it proved to be. His head twisted awkwardly, the cloth falling away from his bloodied face, his dark shadowed eyes.
They had had little time to prepare, they said. The new King had been impatient. Take him, dispose of him, let him be seen by living eyes no more, be no rallying point for rebels.
They glanced over their shoulders in worry that soldiers would come.
We prayed together, before the earth was thrown in, the floor tiles relaid.
No monument here for this King.
Let the people forget him.
Storm’s hooves clattered across the London cobbles. We reached Newgate minutes before sundown, minutes before the gate would be locked for the night.
News of the battle had already come, the gatekeeper said. His voice was heavy with dread. But what would the council do when Tudor himself came? He shook his head.
Everywhere men’s, women’s faces were full of fear. People wondering what the future held.
But I didn’t care. Not now. I only knew I had a message to deliver – at last.
When King Richard handed it to me, I had thought it just a ruse to keep me from the battle. But Lord Lovell’s words had made me think again.
Yet still I had delayed...
Strong horse though he was, Storm had given everything to get us here so swiftly. As we turned into Master Ashley’s courtyard, he was trembling beneath me, his flanks heaving and lathered.
I slithered down from his back, my knees almost buckling after my long ride, and stood waiting for a groom to come. To take him and rub him down, feed and water him.
But no one came. The courtyard was deserted. No torches blazing by the doorway.
Murrey sniffed around, her tail aquiver.
I called.
Still no one.
I led Storm to the stables.
No one there.
Only rustlings, stamping of hooves, a gentle whicker, another in answer. The horses shifting uneasily in the darkness.
I tied Storm in a stall and found him oats and water. Then, dread rising like searing bile in my throat, I made my way to the main entrance.
I did not need to knock.
The heavy oak door was ajar, and its iron lock had been smashed to pieces.
22 Old Friends
I pushed the door open.
All was darkness. Silence.
I stepped across the threshold and rummaged in my pouch for my tinderbox.
But I didn’t strike it. Danger might be waiting and I must not give myself away.
Murrey whined. I quieted her with a finger on her nose.
I listened again.
Still nothing.
Reaching forward with my hands so as not to stumble, I made my way across the dark entrance hall. Still no chink of light anywhere.
Where to go first? Where was my master? I had come all this way to give him my message, only to find no one at home. No servants even.
But why was no one here?
I stepped with care, my hands still before me, towards Master Ashley’s study door at the far end. Once there might I find a clue? If there was still no sight or sound of anyone, I would risk striking a light to see by.
The scent of newly snuffed candle drifted into my nostrils.
How? If no one was there?
One hand moved to my sword hilt.
The fingers of the other touched the smooth wood of the door and nudged it softly open. The smell of smoke was stronger here.
A dog whimpered. I moved to quieten Murrey, but…
The noise had come from inside the pitch-dark room. A panicked voice shushed it. A light, female voice.
Murrey yapped once in reply before I could stop her.
‘Murrey?’ whispered the voice.
A sharp crack as tinder was struck, and the sudden flare of a candle lit up two pale faces.
‘Alys! Elen!’ My own voice emerged as a strangled squeak.
‘Matthew!’
Alys thrust the candle into Elen’s hand and threw herself across the room to fling her arms around me.
‘What are you doing here? I mean, why were you not here? We heard the horse, the calls. We were afraid – we doused the lights. Was it you?’
Her whispered questions tumbled out as we held each other. Then she broke away and stepped back hurriedly. In the glow of the other candles that Elen was now kindling, her face was flushed and confused.
I looked away so she could compose herself. At my heel Murrey was touching noses with her sister, Shadow, who was more like a ghost in the dim light. I fondled both hounds’ ears.
‘How did you know it was Murrey?’
‘She sounds just like Shadow, and I knew she hadn’t barked.’
Alys sounded more her old self now
, though as I turned back, it was clear how much she’d changed since last we’d met. Taller, less boyish, she had grown into a young woman while I had been away. Had I altered as much in her eyes?
Questions for another time, perhaps. For now —
‘What’s happened here? Where’s Master Ashley? All the household?’
A shadow crossed Alys’s face despite the candle light. She stepped to one side and waved her hand.
Behind her, on the floor, swathed in a blanket and head propped on a cushion, lay my London master. His face was deathly white and his breathing laboured. Fresh blood oozed from a jagged gash on his temple and was matted in his sandy hair.
Elen was on her knees beside him now, dabbing at the wound with a cloth.
‘How... ? Who...?’
More questions racing through my brain, I knelt down too and took his hand. It was cold, but the pulse was regular.
‘He was like this when we came,’ murmured Elen. ‘We couldn’t move him so we tried to make him comfortable here. His wife had been beaten too, but not so badly. I’ve settled her in her chamber with a sleeping draught.’
‘Beaten? Mistress Ashley? But —’
‘Matt, where have you been?’ interrupted Alys, abandoning any attempt at keeping quiet. ‘We came here to look for you as soon as we heard about –’ she swallowed, ‘about the battle. Then we found – this! Where were you?’
‘I was there,’ I said, barely audible.
‘What?’
‘I was with the King. And then —’ My voice failed me.
Alys’s eyes grew larger in the flickering light.
‘Is it true? That he’s – dead?’
I couldn’t speak, just nodded.
Elen turned her face away.
Alys fiercely dashed the tears from her cheeks.
‘Then Tudor —’
Anger and sadness jostled for supremacy in her face.
‘Then Henry Tudor will be King. Elizabeth will have to marry him, and...’
‘He’s on his way here now. Tudor. I saw him set off from Leicester before I left. I stayed to see the King—’
‘What?’
‘Buried.’
I could not tell them of all that I had seen.
‘Tudor was marching at the head of his army. They were cheering, many still drunk, driving wagons of spoil stolen from the King. It was easy for me to overtake them.’
The small roads, across country, before – before Watling Street and the milestones.
‘But I came here with a message for Master Ashley. From King Richard.’
‘A message? What does it say?’
‘I have no idea,’ I snapped, indignant. ‘It’s sealed, and for him alone.’
‘Well, he’s in no state to see it now.’
‘He has woken once or twice,’ said Elen.
‘But he’s scarcely been lucid, has he?’ Alys retorted. ‘The message may be important. We should open it.’
I was shocked. I had forgotten my first suspicion that the message was just about me.
‘But it’s the King’s business. Between him and Master Ashley alone.’
‘Matthew, if the King is —’ She gulped, as though her tears were choking her, and brushed her hand again across her cheek. ‘If that is so, perhaps it’s important. Perhaps it would explain this.’
She spread her hands wide. My glance followed hers around the room. In the trembling candlelight, I saw that not only was my master battered and on the floor, but so were all the contents of his study. Chairs were upturned, tables on their sides, papers, quills, books scattered everywhere.
‘The whole house is like this. Mistress Ashley, when we could get any sense from her, said that armed men came, broke down the door and attacked her husband. While some shouted questions at him and the steward, others ransacked every room. The servants all fled or were taken away, along with the steward. She said she thinks they believed Master Ashley was dead.’
‘Who were they? What did they want?’
‘I don’t know,’ she cried in exasperation. ‘Except that I think they must have been Tudor’s agents. Perhaps they got word of the battle even before we did. But maybe the message will tell us what it’s all about.’
I reached in my pouch for the small square of folded parchment that the King had handed me – oh, so long ago now. He had been smiling as he gave it.
As I turned it in my hands, deep within the memory, Murrey growled. A scraping as of feet on flagstones came from the hallway behind me, then a loud halloo.
Elen scrambled up and lunged towards the candles, while Alys grabbed for Shadow’s collar, terror scrawled across her face.
I spun round, my hand clapping to the sword hilt at my hip, my fear crushing at my chest.
Whoever was there was making no attempt at stealth. Another holler, and the glow of a blazing brand approaching across the hall.
Elen stopped quenching the candles – it was too late for that. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the remaining lights glittering on a drawn knife in Alys’s free hand.
Still, silent, we waited.
The footsteps, two sets, moved closer.
Another call, softer now.
Then Murrey let out a muted whine of welcome and paced forward, and Shadow, still in Alys’s whitening grip, sat down and licked her paw, unconcerned.
And into the doorway, lit now by the flame of the torch he held, stepped —
‘Roger!’
His name tripped from my mouth in a laugh of relief. But Alys was less forgiving.
‘Roger! You idiot! You scared us half to death. What do you think you’re doing?’
Roger’s face fell at her assault.
‘I’ve come to help. If I can.’
His gaze scouted around the room, coming to rest on the prone form of Master Ashley.
‘What’s happened? Simon said the house was in uproar, but…’
He ground to a halt.
‘Simon? Where…?’
As I asked, the head of my fellow apprentice peered around the door jamb. Seeing me, his eyes lit up.
‘Matt? You’ve come back. Where’s Mistress Ashley? She sent me for aid when those men broke in, but there was none there. Only —’
He caught sight of Master Ashley and the colour bled from his face.
‘What…?’
Alys took charge.
‘I don’t know who you are, but if you are of Mistress Ashley’s household, can you tell us who did this? And why?’
But Simon only shook his head, his mouth working as though he might be sick. Elen went to him, drawing him in to the room and turning up a stool for him to sit on. She knelt next to him, stroking his arm as his head hung down towards his knees.
‘Simon is an apprentice here,’ put in Roger before I could say anything. ‘He came to Baynard’s Castle for help because Master Ashley is a friend of the King, but of course most of the men at arms are with the King’s army, or…’ He stumbled to a halt, his face crimson. ‘I mean, they were with the King. King Richard, of course.’
Alys’s lips tightened.
‘He’s dead, Roger. King Richard is dead.’
He nodded, his eyes lowered.
‘I know. That’s what they’re saying. When the news came to my parents, I looked for you at the castle. But the servants said you were not to be found. No one could be spared to search for you because the rest of the men at arms had gone to join the defence. Then Simon turned up.’
‘You were at Baynard’s Castle?’ I asked Alys.
‘Of course. Where did you think I’d be?’
‘But —’ I thought back. ‘I thought you were at Sheriff Hutton with Princess Elizabeth.’
She shivered, shaking her head.
‘No. I was, but I travelled down two or three weeks ago. To stay in the King’s mother’s household to prepare for my wedding. That’s why Roger’s here too. He came so he could attend me and visit his family while he was in London.’
‘Your
wedding! But I thought —’
‘You thought what?’
‘That King Richard… That the old Queen…’
Her face twisted.
‘Dame Grey saw me herself when I arrived. She said that I must prepare myself to be married. That King Richard had asked her to reconsider, but … but that he needed the loyalty of all his subjects. That after the coming battle Lord Soulsby must be rewarded. And that Lord Soulsby…’
She bit her lip, then rushed on,
‘That Lord Soulsby would be fighting with Lord Stanley for the King. But then we heard that Lord Stanley and his brother… that they…’
Of a sudden, she rounded on Roger.
‘What defence?’
Roger rocked backwards on his heels, startled.
‘Defence?’
‘You said the men at arms – those who hadn’t gone with the King – weren’t at Baynard’s Castle because they’d gone to join the defence.’
‘Oh, that. Yes, word came that men of fighting age were mustering. In case... in case the city council decides to refuse Tudor entry to the city. Like they did with old Queen Margaret. All the men, well most of them, had gone to join the militia.’
My mind went back almost two years to when I had tried to do just that. When the city had held firm for King Richard at the time of the great rebellion.
Tears shone in Alys’s eyes.
‘They won’t refuse him entry. How can they? What would be the point? Matt says Tudor’s marching here at the head of his army. He won his victory. King Richard... Well, Lord Lincoln would be his heir and he’s far away in the north. There are hardly any knights with him. Even if he... even if he chose to march against Tudor... even if London...’
She shook her head again.
‘They cannot change what’s happened, what God has willed. Whysoever he has willed it... But what use did you think you could be?’
‘I...’ Roger was crestfallen. ‘I don’t know. But a serving woman said that you’d had a letter delivered by one of Master Ashley’s servants. She said you’d been worrying about it for days.’
‘My letter?’ I asked Alys. ‘Saying I was going to the King?’
‘Of course. I couldn’t believe you’d be so daft as to do that.’
‘The serving woman said that when news came of the battle, you and Elen disappeared,’ Roger went on. ‘So, when Simon arrived, asking for help... Well, I thought you might have come here. I thought I should perhaps come – to check that you were safe and find out what help I can offer.’
The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2) Page 21