The Devil in Ermine Page 5

  My cousin’s eyebrows had risen. ‘Grey, eh.’

  ‘An’ I can’t swear to numbers, my lord, but it looked like close to a thousand, and every jack of ’em decently armed. I’d estimate they have over two thousand altogether. It will be nigh impossible to reach the Prince.’

  My breathing had returned to normal. So I was not a suspect but an ally still.

  I cleared my throat. ‘And we have only six hundred between us, cousin.’

  My tone told him that we were already dead men. Rivers probably had a force waiting to ambush us before we reached Stony Stratford. My only consolation was that it was Sir Richard Grey in charge. I had been expecting Dorset, the Queen’s oldest son, to head the escort.

  Gloucester made no answer and the messenger took a last swig.

  ‘How can you be so certain of their intention, sirrah?’ I demanded. ‘Are you privy to their council?’

  The fellow glanced to my cousin for permission before he spoke. ‘Because, my lord, I have been a bodyservant in the Prince’s household this last year.’

  Gloucester’s cheeks were twin concaves and there was a sheepish glint to his eyes as he watched me.

  ‘Have you agents in my household, too, my lord of Gloucester?’ I asked rather huffily.

  ‘I do not think so,’ he laughed, and clapped a hand on his spy’s shoulders. ‘My thanks, loyal friend. To bed with you and sleep well.’

  ‘So!’ He clasped his hands gleefully and turned to Ratcliffe. ‘Dick, set your men stealthily about Lord Rivers’ inn. We mustn’t panic him. The moment there is any stirring, wake me, whatever the hour. Tell Huddleston and Scope to post guards on all the town gates and posterns. None of Rivers’ men must have a chance to warn Grey.’

  I stared at my cousin, feeling as though my sails had gone slack.

  ‘To bed, Harry,’ he exclaimed, grasping me by the forearms. ‘I suspect we shall have to rise early, very early.’ I gazed at him in delight. I was no longer in Brecknock but at the throat of history.

  ‘You played me like a fish, you whoreson,’ I said affectionately.

  His hazel eyes gleamed. ‘I remembered there was another Duke of Gloucester, Humphrey, Hal of Agincourt’s brother, and he was Lord Protector—’

  ‘–and his nephew’s queen had him poisoned,’ I finished.

  ‘It is not going to happen to me, cousin, be sure of that.’ For an instant, I saw the glitter of tears about his eyes but it could have been my imagination.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Your grace! Wake up!’ Bannaster was shaking me. It was still dark, Hell take it!

  ‘My lord, his grace of Gloucester’s man is below.’ That was Pershall. The wet cloth he scoured across my stubble was unnecessary; danger can wake a man as fast as smoke in the nostrils. A piss and a mouth of ale later, I stumbled down the outer stairs. Knyvett and Limerick were already rousing up our retainers. I bade a dozen to accompany me and the rest to make ready to depart.

  I met with my cousin outside in the courtyard in the drizzling gloom of pre-dawn. His broad collar was up like a dragon’s ruff around his neck and he looked even more haggard than he had last night. Dwarfing him was a plump citizen, fidgety as a hen about to lay and looking exceedingly uncomfortable in the torchlight. I recognised Master Lynde.

  ‘Why is the mayor here?’ I whispered, plucking my cousin’s sleeve, as I followed him out beneath the lane archway into the street.

  ‘To bear witness that justice is being meted out. Rivers tried to leave. I have no qualms now in arresting him.’

  My heart leapt. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Confined to his inn. Come, there’s little time.’

  He walked fast. I kept up with him, determined that the world would see I was in this with him. Lynde and a score of his armed men fell in behind us. Our footsteps echoed ominously in the silent street. I had never felt so alive in my life.

  ARMS folded in a sulk, Rivers was leaning against a trestle in the candlelight of the inn’s main chamber, where the air hung heavy with last night’s ale. Although a night’s growth silvered his chin, he still looked very much the courtier and his emerald dressing robe, which swirled with embroideries of golden pilgrim shells, looked to be of heavy Syrian silk. Of course, his hair was suitably unkempt as if he had been awakened by our knocking and no doubt his travelling clothes had been swiftly tidied away as proof of his innocence.

  ‘Dickon,’ he exclaimed, letting irritation and puzzlement swathe his features. ‘What is going on?’ Then he recognised the mayor and I swear the blood ebbed from his face even though he continued with an air of nonchalance. ‘Is there some felon gone to ground? My servants tell me you have the inn surrounded.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was an unpleasant silence

  The Queen’s brother gasped like a landed fish. ‘Why, I went out myself to see what was going on and two men in your livery thrust me back with pikes.’

  ‘In your dressing gown or was it your riding gear?’ I asked. At that, he looked from my cousin’s face to mine and discovering how much I hated him, turned back to my cousin’s brooding countenance. There was no more ‘Dickon’ in his address.

  ‘What is amiss here, Gloucester? I cannot be under suspicion. I came back all the way from Stony Stratford especially to sup with you.’ He swung round angrily on me and anger was unusual for Rivers. ‘Is this your interference, Buckingham? What poison have you been putting about?’

  I moved so that the trestle was between us and leaned across at him.

  ‘You were fully clad earlier, my lord, and we know you gave orders to your men last night that you would be leaving Northampton before we were astir.’

  ‘No, that’s a lie. I swear to you I have only this instant been awakened.’ He threw that at Gloucester and swung round to face Lynde. ‘Master Mayor, as the Lord God is my witness, these are false accusations.’

  But the Mayor of Northampton stood silent. At a nod from his master, Ratcliffe stepped forward with two soldiers at his elbows

  ‘Raise your arms, my lord!’

  Rivers stood seething as they searched him for weapons.

  ‘Enough!’ Thrusting aside his robe, he unfastened his beltpurse and plucked out a folded square of parchment with dags of sealing wax clinging to it. ‘This is a letter that King Edward, your brother, signed on his deathbed giving me full powers to escort Prince Edward to London with as many men as I choose. Master Mayor, witness that I have done naught but my duty.’ Ratcliffe handed it across to Richard, who carried it to the candle.

  ‘I have no quarrel with this, Lord Rivers.’ He passed the parchment to the mayor. ‘However, as uncles of the blood royal, his grace of Buckingham and I see it as our duty to escort our nephew to London, yet you sought to prevent us.’ He took the letter back from Lynde and whisked it into the candle flame.

  ‘Christ Almighty, Gloucester! The King loved us both. You cannot do this.’

  But Rivers, who had beguiled many princes of the world with his verses, his jousting and his handsome looks, had overplayed his hand.

  ‘You will remain here under arrest, my lord, until this matter is fully investigated. Master Lynde, I pray you command my men as your own in this matter.’

  Gloucester nodded to the mayor and strode sternly out through the line of soldiers. Lynde bustled after him as though the instructions had not been enough.

  I lingered at the door and turned.

  Cat’s brother was standing dazed among the ugly scrubbed trestles like a battered tree after a tempest. He had underestimated Richard and he had underestimated me.

  ‘Adieu, Rivers, I’ll carry your love to Elizabeth.’

  He made no reply to me, no pithy answer worthy of the philosopher or pilgrim, but just stared expressionless at me. It would be the first time I could leave his company not feeling like a fool.

  ‘Harry.’

  I turned.

  And then he spat.

  MY cousin was already mounted, his mouth a grim line of impatience. On horseback
, with his collared mantle lending him more substance and the long crocodilus of our retinues tailing out behind him, he looked what I hoped he was, a man about to take possession of a kingdom.

  ‘Is aught wrong, my lord of Buckingham?’ he asked. The torches must have lit the raw wound of emotion in my face as I slid into the saddle and took my horse’s reins.

  ‘No,’ I answered hoarsely, unclenching my jaw. ‘Let us be quit of here.’

  He twisted round and gave the order to move off. As swiftly as any army might, we rode down Watling Street.

  Darkness and drizzle are poor companions and we made little speed until the dawn. It was about half-past the hour of eight when Richard waved a halt and signalled to one of his captains. The man instantly rode back along the column.

  Uncle Knyvett urged his horse up alongside mine. ‘How is this going to be played out, Harry? We are nearly at the causeway to Stony Stratford.’ He was jumpy and with good reason. I was wondering the same myself. It was a few years since I had passed through the town but I remembered the causeway being narrow, a good place for an ambush.

  Richard heard us and turned in his saddle. ‘If they are expecting Lord Rivers at any instant, they’ll have lookouts. We do not want to disappoint them, do we?’ One of his knights claimed his attention and he turned away with a tight smile.

  ‘Clear as Yorkshire mud,’ muttered Uncle Knyvett. ‘Am I missing someth—’

  I laughed. ‘Look!’

  A horseman bearing River’s scallop shell banner galloped up from behind us and foot soldiers, wearing the stolen liveries of his company, swarmed past us to halt panting, ahead of our horses. They regrouped themselves tightly behind the banner, glancing back over their shoulders. It was fair-haired Lovell that they were waiting for. Garbed in Rivers’ hat and riding cloak, he spurred past us to head the procession.

  ‘Well, it might work,’ muttered Uncle Knyvett grudgingly. ‘Morelike, the Woodvilles have the child halfway to London by now.’

  ‘And leave Lord Rivers to our loving kindness? No, I do not think so.’

  ‘Mother of God, Harry, the Queen’s grace has sent over a thousand men to safeguard her fledgling. Are you sure my lord of Gloucester knows what he’s up against?’

  ‘I trust his judgment, uncle.’ Then I added an honest addendum. ‘God’s truth, but sometimes it is hard to tell betwixt what is thought out and what is improvised.’

  Uncle Knyvett’s answer was an exasperated sigh as he checked that his sword could slide freely. Then he took off his cloak so if need be he might wind it round his left forearm as a buckler. I felt like doing the same but with Richard a few paces away and the rest of our retinue needing confidence, I resisted the temptation.

  We gave Lovell about a hundred paces start and the ruse worked, for we heard a horn sound ahead of us. Nevertheless, my mouth was dry as I sighted the causeway chapel and the first inn of the town. My spurs almost tangled with Richard’s as we led the way across the narrow causeway.

  Well, no one attacked us but any fool could realise Stony Stratford was a confounded death trap. All I could see, once we passed the Eleanor Cross, was the narrow, unbroken strip of taverns and merchants’ houses, with Lovell’s men heading towards a huge plug of people, stoppering any escape.

  Sweet Christ! I had not seen as many people since the Queen’s coronation when I was scarce out of infant skirts. I swallowed, my hand longing to clamp round my sword handle. Would I die this morning as I had feared in my dreams last night? Had it been like this for my grandsire at St Albans, forced up against somebody’s front door or cornered in a yard, hacked to death between a rainwater barrel and a housewife’s washing?

  ‘Christ ha’ mercy!’ I must have said it aloud for Richard turned his face to me. The whoreson did not have a twitch of fear in his entire body.

  ‘Time to send our heralds, I believe.’ He lifted his arm and immediately the captain behind us set a horn to his lips. Our trumpeters blared and Lovell’s men split rank, fluidly swerving aside to let our heralds through. We followed.

  I could see now that scores of townsfolk stood at the edge of a huge pack of liveried retainers and in their midst, beneath the drooping pennons and damp banners, were a thicket of horsemen, who were reining round to face us in some concern as they saw our banners. Our heralds rode straight in, looking to neither right nor left and hubbub ensued as the townsfolk gave way, tearing like a threadbare cloth before their horses.

  My stallion threw up his head. He must have felt my fear running down the taut rein. Sweet Jesu, I had never been so afraid in my life. Either side my stirrups, the Woodville men-at-arms stared, their mouths roundels of confusion beneath their brimmed sallets, but a yell, that’s all it would take, and they could drive their baselards into our horses’ breasts and drag us down. I was praying hard. The stretching crowd seemed endless. To my right a great ganglion of retainers was bulging out into a marketplace. Beyond that was the river. Nowhere to run.

  We drew close enough to see that our young quarry was astride his horse. Judging by their gestures, several nobles about the Prince were in fierce argument and a young man with long blond hair was staring at us in consternation—Sir Richard Grey, Cat’s nephew, the Queen’s son from an earlier marriage.

  Richard dismounted and I did so, too. The way before us was insufficient to walk abreast and I followed him dry-mouthed, feeling like Moses walking the bed of the Red Sea while God held back its might. But not for an instant did my cousin hesitate. He might be a runt in stature but he was cursed tall in courage.

  ‘God save your grace’ whispered like a litany as we passed, and word that Gloucester was come hissed out through the crowd like wind through reeds. The townsfolk began huzzahing.

  The twelve year old Prince was staring at us and then he recognised his uncle and inclined his head. A pretty young stripling he was, too, with the leggy look of a young colt. The cap and mantle of the mourning blue, reserved for kings, favoured his complexion and the Woodville ash-blond hair. As Richard reached his stirrup, the boy, with genuine pleasure, extended his hand for his uncle to kiss.

  Then it was my turn.

  ‘God bless your highness.’ Since he did not dismount, I did not kneel.

  Golden lashes twitched above eyes that were a chillier blue than his father’s. There was no cheer for me, only puzzlement. I had not seen him since his little brother’s wedding to the Mowbray heiress five years ago, just before George’s trial. He must have been only seven years old; now he was almost thirteen.

  ‘My lord,’ he said politely, but with little warmth in his greeting. Such a Woodville already! I discreetly lowered my stare to his little cross of pearls and rubies. By Heaven, he clearly had no notion of who I was or if he did, it was a studied insult. I was not at all pleased.

  ‘This is his grace the Duke of Buckingham, your highness,’ intervened a man wearing a the broad-brimmed hat of a churchman. I lifted my head and received a placatory smile. It was Alcock, Bishop of Worcester, President of the Council of the Welsh Marches, wondering which side of his bread to butter.

  ‘Yes, another uncle, your highness.’ I nodded, with my teeth showing. ‘It has been a long while since we met.’

  ‘You are welcome, Uncle Buckingham,’ Prince Edward said, a spark of memory flaring. But he was frowning beyond me at the noblemen from his entourage who were rapidly dismounting to greet his Uncle Gloucester. ‘I though we were leaving now,’ he said loudly. The irritation edging the choirboy voice seemed to be directed at his half-brother, Grey.

  Richard heard the complaint and swung round to face him. ‘Have you been waiting long, your highness?’ he asked cheerfully.

  ‘An hour at least. Where is my Uncle Rivers? You said he was here, brother.’ Another verbal cannonball hurled at Grey, whose mouth was still catching flies. Rivers’ banner had disappeared but Grey was staring northwards across the crowd in utter puzzlement. His pallor matched his name.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Richard smoothly. ‘I thought i
t was my lord of Buckingham and I who had delayed you, your highness.’

  ‘No, Uncle Gloucester. It is my Uncle Rivers. He should be here by now. You must have seen him on the road. Did he not sup with you last evening?’

  My cousin glanced northwards without concern. ‘He is delayed, I fear. Shall we go to your inn and take refreshment?’

  ‘But we have to leave now, Uncle Gloucester.’ There was a stamp of foot in his tone.

  ‘Do we, your highness?’

  ‘Why, yes, madame my mother expects us in London. I am to be crowned.’

  ‘And has your highness had breakfast?’ Richard asked and glanced round in friendly fashion at the royal followers.

  ‘No, uncle.’

  ‘Then let us have breakfast,’ I interrupted, making it a song for three voices.

  What could our little uncrowned colt reply? Would his stepbrother, Grey, or his hoary treasurer, Vaughan, assert we must hurry? Not Grey, who had many a time smuggled spiders into my winecup when I lived at Westminster. He suddenly discovered his bootcaps of immense interest as I stared along the unhappy cluster of officers from Ludlow who had usurped my rightful dominance in Wales. ‘Sir Richard Vaughan,’ I exclaimed, singling out the man who had been given my duties in Western Wales. ‘Maybe you think otherwise?’

  Pale as a newly hewn tombstone, he looked round at me, and saw Richard studying him, too.

  ‘No, not at all, your gra…, your graces.’

  Those around him shuffled and murmured. Not one of them was prepared to stick his neck out. Had Rivers been in command there, history could have been written differently and I might already have an obituary.

  Ah, it was a sweet hour. I was hard put not to grin with satisfaction as I watched the Queen’s knights stiffly consign their horses’ bridles to their servants and follow us. The crowd parted, cooing. An uncle at each elbow, the future King Edward V walked between us back in the gentle drizzle to The Rose and Crown. Most appropriate. A blushing rose; you could see where the white paint was fading and the old Lancastrian red was showing through.

  At first, I thought Richard was handling the business like a master, steering everyone into privacy away from a public quarrel. Without even a bloody nose, he had outfaced and outmanoeuvred the entire Woodville retinue. It was checkmate with a soaring, illuminated capital ‘C’. There was no question now that I should throw in my lot with his.