Owen - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy Read online

  I am right, the nursery is as busy as ever, with the young prince surrounded by servants as they wash and dress him for the first day of the year. Juliette glances up as I enter and approaches, looking as correct as ever in her white headscarf. The only sign of what happened the previous night is the briefest twinkle in her eyes as she speaks.

  ‘Good morning, sir—and a happy New Year to you.’

  I raise a hand to show I am addressing the whole room. ‘Happy New Year to you all.’ The prince is now dressed and beaming up at me. ‘And to you, my king.’ There is a trace of irony in my tone, which amuses the nursemaids.

  Juliette speaks for them. ‘The queen has asked for him to be at her side for the New Year’s feasting. It will be his first banquet.’

  ‘We should discuss the arrangements, if you have the time?’ I try to sound casual, although I am holding my breath as I wait for her answer.

  ‘Of course, sir. I will walk with you.’

  We walk side by side down the corridor in silence, through shafts of winter sunlight from high leaded-glass windows which make bright patterns of light and shadow on the tiled floor. One of the strange qualities of the corridors at Windsor Castle is the way even whispered voices carry great distances. Good for men guarding the doors but not for people with secrets to discuss.

  I am pleased Juliette has agreed to see me now, rather than make me wait before we can discuss what happened. It would have distracted me for the rest of the day. We reach one of the private rooms and I usher her inside and close the door behind us. We stand for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak.

  I break the silence. ‘You understand this... has to be kept our secret, Juliette, at least for now.’

  ‘Of course.’ She looks at me with new confidence. ‘You know how they talk. It would be such a scandal, if not handled properly.’

  ‘I am glad you agree, Juliette.’ I put my hand on her arm, which feels warm and soft through her sleeve, and have a sudden memory of her pulling her dress off to reveal the thin cotton shift she wears underneath. I force myself to focus on my words. ‘There will be... opportunities. We need to take care.’

  Juliette kisses me. The kiss is spontaneous and seals the pact between us. There is no need to say any more and I watch as she slips back to the nursery. I like the thought of sharing a great secret with her. I will make it public when the time is right and in the meantime there will be opportunities.

  Chapter Three

  Winter of 1423

  Strangely patterned clouds drift overhead as I depart on the journey to London. An old rhyme comes to mind: mackerel sky, mackerel sky, never long wet, never long dry. The road glitters with early morning frost as I guide my horse, a well-bred palfrey belonging to the infant king, avoiding ice-covered puddles. With luck, I hope to reach London before my fingers freeze, although they are already tingling under my riding gauntlets.

  The queen told me to travel with some of her personal guards, but I chose to ride alone, prepared to take my chances on the road to London, despite the threat of robbery and the fact I am unarmed. I enjoy the sense of freedom, being able to ride as I please. I also wish to keep this meeting with Duke Humphrey as discreet as possible. There is no way of knowing who in the royal household could be informers to the duke’s rival, Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester.

  In the pocket of my doublet is the handkerchief embroidered with the red dragon. I would laugh if anyone called me superstitious, yet my keepsake gives me comfort, a token of good luck for my safe return. Juliette secretly visits my room whenever she can, always careful not to be seen at my door and always surprising me.

  Once she arranged a hot bath, the first I have tried. A great hogshead half-barrel, lined with clean white linen cloths was filled with pans of scalding hot water. Juliette laughed as I managed to climb in without spilling too much on the floor. In spring and summer I am happy to take a dip in the River Thames which snakes its way around the castle. In the winter I cope as best as I can with my bowl and jug. It feels wonderful to bathe in clean water, with Juliette’s soap scented with fragrant herbs, and see her admiring glances.

  Another time she arrived at my door with a wooden bowl covered with a cloth, which she removed like a conjuror to reveal all kinds of exotic fruits. Some I have never seen before, even in France. Juliette confesses they were a gift from a merchant for the young king, but his governess told her to throw them out in case they made him ill. We shared the fruit as a late night feast, washed down with some fine ale.

  We have become close since that first night and know it won’t be long before our great secret is out. I still feel the strange longing at the thought of the lonely queen but push such thoughts from my mind. I could not wish for more from any woman than the love I have from Juliette.

  In my saddlebag I carry the folded sheet of parchment with the list of all those who have visited the queen. I studied the neatly written names before I left, wondering what use the duke can make of it. I find it hard to imagine anyone using the festivities as an opportunity to influence the queen. There must be a particular person the duke is concerned about and, if that is the case, he can make my job easier by saying who they are.

  I pass the time on my long ride by trying to recall what I know about Queen Catherine’s brother-in-law, the enigmatic Duke Humphrey of Gloucester. Already one of the richest men in England, he inherited more vast estates, and the income from them, on the death of his elder brother King Henry V. He has more wealth than most people could dream of, but it seems the duke is still relentlessly ambitious.

  My horse snorts a protest as I spur it on faster. The winter chill starts to bite and I pull my cloak more tightly around me as the first snowflakes drift from the wintry sky, settling in my horse’s mane like tiny diamonds before melting. I have taken a risk by making the journey to London in late January. So far at least I have been spared the misery of rain and the usually muddy roads are still frozen, with thick ice in the deeper ruts.

  The sun is descending in the west before the jagged forest of spires and towers of the capital city appear on the horizon. The muddy, dung-strewn roads are busier, with groups of riders on horseback, heavily laden carts drawn by horses and oxen, as well as poorer travellers making the long journey on foot. I scan the skyline, remembering the tallest of the spires is St Paul’s, close to the duke’s mansion on the banks of the Thames.

  As I reach the city gates I am saddened to see a crowd of poor and sick men, women and children gathered to try their luck with travellers, despite the falling snow. A waiting beggar tugs at my cape, asking for charity to feed his starving family. I throw the ragged figure a silver groat as a reward for his nerve and in memory of the starving citizens of Rouen.

  The streets of London are a riot of sounds and smells, exciting and dangerous in equal measure. Women call to me from open windows, offering a good time as I ride past. Street vendors try to sell me everything from cups of ale to miracle cures. Piles of rubbish and the stink of open sewers make me ride with more urgency to the cleaner streets of Westminster, where ramshackle wooden buildings are replaced by slate-roofed stone houses.

  Duke Humphrey’s mansion is not difficult to find. Baynard’s Castle is the grandest of all the fine houses overlooking the river like a row of subtleties, finely crafted from sugar at a lavish banquet. I announce myself to the smartly-dressed guards at the high, wrought-iron gates and am not kept waiting long once the duke learns of my arrival.

  After stabling my horse I am ushered through a side entrance and escorted up a polished marble stairway to the duke’s personal study. The oak panelled room is hung with fine tapestries and a good fire blazes in a hearth decorated with gilded cherubs.

  Duke Humphrey stands looking out of the window at the murky, fast-flowing River Thames. Boats with great tan sails drift effortlessly past. Others are rowed upriver against the current by hard-working watermen, all dusted with lightly falling snow. The duke welcomes me and points across the water to the south ba
nk.

  ‘They’ve built a new bull-baiting theatre—right next to the bear-baiting pit.’ He scowls at the thought. ‘Savages.’

  For once I find some common ground with the duke. ‘I visited the bear-baiting once, out of curiosity, my lord.’ I look across the river. ‘I heard the spectacle was not one to be missed, yet I found the sight of bears being taunted by packs of dogs disturbing.’

  Duke Humphrey nods in approval and places a welcoming hand on my shoulder. ‘You must be frozen after your ride, Tudor. Come and sit by the fire and tell me the news from Windsor.’ He pulls a bell cord and a liveried servant appears. ‘Claret—and have a room prepared for my visitor. He will be staying overnight.’

  The servant vanishes like a ghost and soon reappears with two finely engraved goblets on a polished silver tray. We watch in silence as he pours generous measures, first for the duke, then for me. The man hands us a goblet each, then silently closes the door as he leaves.

  I am surprised at the duke’s generosity and how he treats me more like a friend than a servant. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ I sip the claret and the rich red wine warms me in an instant, taking me back to my time in France. I place the goblet on a table and unfold the parchment with the list of Queen Catherine’s visitors, smoothing it out before handing it to the duke.

  ‘I decided to deliver this in person, my lord. You asked me to show discretion.’

  Duke Humphrey studies the list, as if looking for a particular name. ‘This is everyone?’

  ‘It is, my lord. I have employed a clerk to keep records. He has no knowledge of the purpose, of course.’ I hope the duke won’t ask if the queen knows of the list, as I have no wish to lie if it can be avoided.

  ‘Good work, Tudor. I knew I could rely on you.’

  I feel a flicker of conscience as I take another sip of the duke’s fine claret. I could have produced the list without the queen’s knowledge, although not without being disloyal to her. I find I am warming to the duke, though. After all, we share the same interest—the well-being of the queen and the infant king.

  ‘It would make my task easier, my lord, if you could tell me who I am on the lookout for and why?’ It seems a reasonable question.

  The duke sips his claret before answering. ‘Edmund Beaufort, for one. Or his uncle, Bishop Henry Beaufort. There is a rumour Bishop Henry is plotting to betroth his young nephew Edmund to the dowager queen.’ He scowls again. ‘Which of course, I could not possibly support.’

  I see the duke hates the Beauforts with a vengeance, yet they are first cousins. Duke Humphrey would be in line for succession to the throne, after his elder brother Duke John of Bedford, the heir apparent, if anything were to happen to the young King Henry. I decide to risk speaking my mind.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, I understand Bishop Henry Beaufort is the queen’s guardian and also appointed guardian of the young king. Is there something else I need to know?’

  ‘Indeed there is, Tudor.’ The duke takes another sip of claret and savours the taste. ‘My late elder brother bankrupted the crown to finance his war in France. Parliament had taxed the people as severely as it dared, so Henry Beaufort secured loans against the crown jewels—and pledged further loans to the king of twenty-six thousand pounds from his own personal wealth.’ He half smiles, yet his eyes are cold. ‘And where do you suppose a bishop would find that sort of money?’

  ‘I have no idea, my lord.’ Twenty-six thousand pounds is a fortune, even by the standards of the royal family, enough to pay for an entire invading army. ‘The money could have come from an inheritance?’

  The duke scoffs. ‘Henry Beaufort is the bastard son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, the second of four illegitimate children. He inherited nothing, which is why he ended up in the church.’

  ‘You suspect foul play?’

  ‘Exactly!’ The duke’s brow creases in furrows like a freshly ploughed field. ‘I suspect the bishop is corruptly abusing his position and, what is worse, my brother John is in league with him.’

  * * *

  I turn the duke’s allegation over in my mind as I ride at an ambling gait back to Windsor Castle next morning. I slept soundly after a hearty meal in the duke’s well-appointed kitchens, reputed to be the finest in the whole of London, and had been in no hurry to leave. Now the air feels a little warmer in the winter sun. The overnight fall of snow is turning to a muddy slush and spatters in the air, bringing curses from a man walking in the road as my horse trots past.

  I decide the journey has been worthwhile. I have met the duke’s demands without compromising my loyalty to the queen. Instead, I have proved I put her interests before my own. I have also earned Duke Humphrey’s goodwill and trust, which could prove useful in the future.

  I had known of the rivalry between the duke and the Beauforts, although I cannot pretend to understand it. The way the duke speaks of Bishop Beaufort anyone would think he is the devil incarnate, but I see how marriage between Edmund Beaufort and Queen Catherine would seal the power of the bishop, who already seems to control the parliament of Westminster.

  Apart from his influential uncle, Edmund doesn’t seem to have a great deal going for him. As the third son, Edmund has no money and poor prospects. He is now of marriageable age and in search of a worthy heiress. I dismiss a surge of jealousy that the young noble and his uncle plan to marry him to Queen Catherine, if the rumours the duke has heard are true.

  Dusk is turning the sky to an ethereal pinkish grey by the time I reach Windsor and make my way to the castle stables. The rain, which started as a light shower an hour before, has become more determined and I am glad of my wide-brimmed hat and riding cape. Made of oiled leather, the cape is long enough to cover my legs and keeps the worst of the rain from soaking me to the skin. My boots are leaking though, and I feel the cold, unpleasant chill as rain trickles inside them.

  My mind turns to Juliette. I have only been away for one night and am already looking forward to seeing her again. She will be full of questions about London, so I am glad I can tell her my journey has not been wasted. I must be wary of Duke Humphrey and give him no cause to mistrust me, but now I feel I understand him a little better.

  They should be expecting my return, yet no light burns and no one is there to greet me as I arrive back at the stables. Apart from the horses the stables are deserted and I make a mental note to speak to the ostler. He has enough staff to ensure there is always someone there to greet visitors and tend their horses.

  I unbuckle and remove the bridle, then unhitch the girth of the heavy wet saddle and lay my saddlebags to one side. I hear the door bang behind me as I brush my horse and comb its mane and tail. I would have liked to wash the horse down but the hour is getting late, so after making sure it has enough feed and water, I spread fresh straw on the cold ground of its stall.

  A muffled cough is followed by the scrape of heavy boots and I turn, expecting one of the stable grooms. Instead two swarthy men I have never seen before charge at me, knocking me roughly to the ground. I am cold and tired after the long ride from London and they have surprise on their side. To be ambushed once safely home is the last thing I expected.

  ‘Unhand me!’ I struggle to break free from their firm grip.

  Anger helps me find new energy and with a curse that reverberates around the stables I kick with all my strength, aiming between the legs of the man to my left. His grip loosens as my rain-soaked riding boot makes him double up with pain. Taking advantage of my freedom, I barge the man to my right against the hard stone wall of the stable, driving the wind from his lungs. Then I punch the man’s jaw so hard at least one of his teeth is lost.

  I turn to see what has become of the first man in time to see him pull a knife from his belt. The short blade glistens as he charges a second time and I throw myself to the ground, avoiding the savage blow by inches. Both men pile on top of me, one holding my hands while the second ties them behind my back, pulling so tight the rope cuts into my skin. They pull me upright and ma
ke me stand, one pinioning each of my arms.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I struggle to break loose but it is no good, as my hands are tied so tightly they start to feel numb.

  A third man appears out of the darkness and I realise he must have watched the fight, waiting for his accomplices to do their work. Lithely built with lank hair and a jagged scar running across his face, he grins, revealing blackened teeth.

  ‘Yes, Mister Tudor... we know who you are.’ His voice is rasping, with a northern accent.

  He punches me hard in the chest, winding me with the unexpected force of the blow and if it were not for the men holding me I would have collapsed to the ground. They pull me upright again as I try to clear my head. The scarred man grabs my hair and pulls my head back.

  ‘I have a message to deliver to you, Mister Tudor.’

  I feel the warmth of the man’s foul breath in my face. ‘Who are you?’ I don’t recognise any of them. ‘What is this all about?’

  ‘You like asking questions, don’t you, Mister Tudor? Well, this is what happens to people who ask too many questions.’

  I look from one to the other and see the man with the scarred face is in charge, the other two following his orders. I try to recall if I have seen any of the men before and a tantalising memory hovers somewhere at the back of my mind, then eludes me.

  ‘You won’t get away with this. I am a servant of the king.’ The threat is my last hope and now my anger is replaced by the cold shock of fear. I am no match for the three thugs and there are no witnesses.

  The scarred man gives a rasping laugh and punches me hard in the face. I feel the sting of searing pain and hear a crunch as my nose is broken. I taste the metallic warmth of my own blood as it runs down my face.

  ‘Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, Mister Tudor, or next time we’ll finish the job.’ He swings his fist again and punches me hard on the side of the head.