Owen - Book One of the Tudor Trilogy Page 4

  This time the other two thugs let me slip to the stable floor, one of them kicking so hard I hear a crack as my rib breaks. The men are laughing as they leave with no remorse for their actions. As I lie on the cold floor, drifting into unconsciousness, a name floats into my mind. Only one person could be behind this.

  Chapter Four

  The low-ceilinged basement room which serves as the castle infirmary has several wooden beds for care of the sick and injured. The windows are small and high on the north facing wall, so the infirmary always seems dark, particularly in winter. There is a fireplace, though no one has thought to light a fire, so I wake shivering and disorientated, wondering where I am.

  The queen’s personal physician, James Somerset, a kindly, absent-minded man with a straggling grey beard, examines my black eyes and bruised face with professional detachment. ‘You’ll live, Tudor.’ He shakes his head, as if the assault is somehow my fault. ‘I’ve done my best with your nose. After the swelling reduces... it should be straight enough. You took quite a beating.’

  I don’t need to be told. My nose has stopped bleeding, although I feel a deep, dull ache and my head throbs, more than the worst hangover I can ever recall. The sharp pain from my broken rib stabs like a blunted knife with each move I try to make. Somerset has bound my ribs with clean white linen, explaining he can apply leeches, although there is little else to do. I know many weeks will pass before my injuries heal.

  The queen’s physician leaves, recommending plenty of rest, and Juliette appears at my bedside, a frown of concern on her face. I am relieved to see her, and am grateful as she places a cool hand on my forehead.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I’ve been better.’ I manage a weak smile. ‘How did I get here?’ My voice sounds hoarse. My throat hurts when I try to speak and the constant buzzing in my ears makes it hard to think.

  ‘One of the grooms found you in the stable this morning.’ She looks at me with concern in her eyes. ‘Who attacked you, Owen? What happened?’

  ‘Three men ambushed me in the stables when I returned. I don’t know any of them, although I have a good idea what this is about.’ I remember my concern for the young clerk. ‘Have you seen Nathaniel?’

  Juliette looks confused. ‘No. What has he to do with this?’

  ‘The men who attacked me told me to stop asking questions.’ I grimace as my head hurts. ‘Before I left for London I told Nathaniel to check the stores in the kitchens. I needed Nathaniel to gather evidence before I could do anything, and now I’m worried I’ve put him in danger.’

  I groan and swing my legs over the side of the bed then try to stand. I have to warn the clerk and hope he has the evidence I need. I like the mild-mannered young man and it will rest heavily on my conscience if anything has happened to him.

  Juliette gently pushes me back down on the bed. ‘You need to rest, Owen.’ She pulls a rough woollen blanket over me, glancing at the fire, which has still not been lit. ‘I’ll see if I can find Nathaniel—and I will have someone sort out the fire, it’s freezing in here.’

  I am reluctant for her to leave but know she is right. ‘Take care, Juliette.’ I look down at my blood-stained doublet. ‘Can you bring me some clean clothes?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ She turns to go then leans over and kisses the one part of my face not covered in bruises. ‘I love you, Owen Tudor,’ she whispers.

  ‘Even with a broken nose?’

  ‘Even with a broken nose!’

  I wake with a start to find Nathaniel sitting at my bedside, reading a leather-bound book by the flickering light of a candle. A fire blazes in the infirmary grate, filling the room with much-needed warmth and the tang of wood smoke. The corners of the room are filled with shadows and I guess I must have slept through most of the day. My head is still sore but I am relieved to see the young clerk has not suffered the same treatment.

  Nathaniel closes his book. ‘Juliette said I should let you sleep, sir.’ He points to a change of clothes in a neatly folded pile. ‘She brought you those.’

  ‘Thank you, Nathaniel.’ I rub my eyes, the pain in my nose a dull ache now. ‘I’m relieved to see you.’

  ‘Juliette told me what happened I hope the attack wasn’t my fault. It was not possible to do as you asked.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are no proper records of what should be in the stores.’ Nathaniel shrugs. ‘Some deliveries, such as bread and milk, are used right away. Other orders, like cases of wine from France, take months to arrive. The problem is supplies can go missing and we have no way of knowing.’

  I sit up, wincing at the pain in my side. ‘Did they threaten you?’

  ‘Samuel Cleaver told me to... keep out of his kitchen. He had me thrown out of the stores as soon as he heard I was in there. They didn’t hurt me or make any threats.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid I told them...’

  I climb out of bed, more easily this time. ‘You told them you were working on my orders?’

  Nathaniel nods but says nothing.

  ‘Don’t look so down—I would have done the same if I’d been in your position.’ I change into the clothes Juliette brought and throw my ruined, blood-stained doublet to the floor. I am pleased to see she has also replaced my sodden riding boots with my best black leather pair, which I pull on, already feeling better.

  ‘We could have Cleaver arrested and locked up, even though we don’t have any proof. He obviously has something to hide.’

  Nathaniel looks concerned. ‘What if we then have to release him?’ His forehead creases in a furrowed frown. ‘And what about his henchmen? We still need to find the men who... did this to you.’ He looks at my bruised face.

  ‘Locking up Samuel Cleaver will only solve half the problem.’ I remember the feel of my nose breaking and don’t relish the thought of being caught out a second time. They threatened to finish the job and are capable of doing so.

  ‘One of the men had a scar on his face, across the left cheek. Have you seen anyone like that?’

  ‘No. The trouble is...’

  I close my eyes for a second and grit my teeth as I try to bear the pain from my cracked rib. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘The trouble is,’ Nathaniel continues, ‘unless we can find these men, there is a danger they might do it again.’

  ‘I can’t do my job if I’m looking over my shoulder all the time.’

  ‘What other option do we have?’

  ‘None I can think of.’

  I finish dressing and we walk through the servants’ passageway to the offices of the constable. Sir Walter Hungerford is tall and well-built, approaching fifty and never seen without his sword of office, worn low on a belt. He greets me like an old friend.

  ‘What the hell have you been up to, Tudor? Fighting again?’

  I attempt a smile. ‘It was three against one. They ambushed me in the stables last night. That’s why I’ve come to see you.’

  Sir Walter tells us to take a seat and closes the door. ‘So, what’s this all about?’

  I am unsure where to start. ‘This is my clerk, Nathaniel. I tasked him with making an inventory of the kitchen stores, as I suspected all was not as it should be, my lord.’

  ‘There’s always theft from kitchens, Tudor.’ There is a patronising tone to his voice. ‘Cooks work long hours on low wages, so it doesn’t surprise me if they sometimes help themselves. This suggests something else though.’

  ‘We need your help, my lord. We’ve been warned off by the head cook, Samuel Cleaver, which confirms my suspicions he is up to no good.’

  ‘You want him arrested?’

  ‘I don’t have any proof.’ I feel another stab of pain from my wounded rib. ‘Samuel Cleaver’s no fool. He will deny it all.’

  ‘What do you suggest then, Tudor?’ Sir Walter sits back in his richly upholstered chair. ‘I can’t go round arresting people without proper reason.’

  ‘I’m going to let him know he can’t get away wi
th having me warned off. I thought as constable and steward of the king’s household you should be made aware of this, my lord.’

  ‘Of course. I think it’s best if some of my men escort you.’

  ‘One should do. I don’t want this to get out of hand.’ I look at the constable. ‘I’d like to deal with this without it coming to the queen’s attention. It is, after all, a household matter, my lord.’

  Sir Walter shakes his head. ‘And how do you propose to explain two black eyes and a broken nose to the queen? You look like a prize fighter from the back streets!’

  ‘I will explain I was set upon by thieves, on my return from London.’

  ‘True enough,’ the constable agrees. ‘I’ll send a good man with you to the stores. I’ll also have the captain of the guard tell his men to keep an eye out for you until this business is sorted out.’ He shakes his head again. ‘This reflects badly on us all here, Tudor. I’ll help you if I can.’

  I thank him and head for the Great Kitchen, followed by one of the royal guards. I feel a mix of apprehension and anger about confronting Samuel Cleaver, although it gives me peace of mind to know the guard is standing by. Cleaver wouldn’t be so stupid as to attack one of the queen’s guards. That would be treason, so he could face the death penalty.

  The Great Kitchen is a steaming vision of hell when we arrive. I can’t understand how anyone would choose to work in such conditions from first light until after the last supper of the evening. Young boys, barely ten years old, are the scullions, apprentices who hope to one day become cooks. They scrub blackened, greasy iron pans and wash clattering piles of pewter platters.

  The smell of burning wood and charcoal from ovens and stoves mingles with rich aromas of boiling stews and freshly baked bread. Two young kitchen girls pluck feathers from fat chickens still steaming from the scalding house. A man strains with effort as he turns a whole pig on a roasting spit, his face bright red and running with sweat from the heat of the coals.

  There in the middle of it all stands Cleaver, in a linen apron, shouting orders and cursing the poor quality of staff at the top of his voice. He spots us as soon as we set foot in the doorway and scowls as he mops his thick, muscular neck with a cloth. He looks surprised to see me.

  ‘What can I do for you... gentlemen?’ Cleaver stresses the last word to make it sound as insincere as possible, and then nods in the direction of the royal-liveried guard at the door. ‘What’s this all about?’ His tone is challenging.

  ‘We need to check the stores.’ I note Cleaver’s expression of disbelief. ‘Routine housekeeping. I want to see how deliveries are recorded and everything is as it should be.’

  My tactic of coming straight to the point seems to have worked. Cleaver looks again at my black eyes and bruised nose, then at the studious Nathaniel. Samuel Cleaver is a man used to having his own way and scowls in annoyance.

  ‘Come with me,’ he leads us towards the stores, ‘I’ll show you.’

  We follow him down scrubbed stone steps into the basement. The food store is underground, cool in summer and freezing in winter. This is useful for keeping supplies of food fresh, although not so good for working in. Samuel Cleaver shows us the different rooms within the basement, each designed for a particular need. In the flesh larder brown cured hams and sides of venison hang alongside braces of pheasants and grouse, suspended from iron hooks in the low ceiling.

  Next to this is the wet store, where rows of oak barrels contain everything from salted herring to whole cod fish stored in wet seaweed. Freshwater carp and eels, as well as pike, are stored alive in the castle moat until needed. Alongside this is the dry larder for pulses and grain, with great round cheeses taking an entire shelf and giving off a distinctly mouldy odour. The light is poor in the storerooms, although we see there are no thugs waiting in dark corners.

  Cleaver turns to me. ‘We have enough to feed an army here. If you wish, Master Tudor, you can have your clerk,’ he gives a dismissive wave to Nathaniel, ‘check the stores against the deliveries, although I can save you the time. You will find everything is accounted for.’

  I silently curse, as the head cook has the self-satisfied look of a man who is one step ahead of the game. He had been expecting our visit and made sure there is nothing that can be used as evidence against him. The place looks as if it has been made ready for an inspection.

  ‘Everything does seem to be in order.’ I lift the lid on a wooden crate, which proves to contain casks of French red wine, then pull one out to examine it. ‘I think we have seen enough... for today.’

  Samuel Cleaver’s expression changes. ‘I’ll thank you, Master Tudor, to leave the running of the Great Kitchen to me.’

  ‘I’m sure you are as keen as I am to make sure nothing goes missing, as if I find it has, there will be... consequences.’

  The head cook sees us to the door. He mops his shiny head with the cloth he carries and glowers as we leave with the guard following behind.

  ‘Take care, Master Tudor.’ Cleaver manages to add a note of threat to the words.

  * * *

  I lie awake, trying to think. I am not prepared to turn a blind eye to Samuel Cleaver, as my predecessors seem to have done. Even Sir Walter seems sympathetic towards Cleaver, although he has ordered a man to be posted outside my door. All that achieves is to make it impossible for Juliette to visit. They can’t guard me forever, yet I cannot live with the risk of being attacked hanging over me. Nathaniel is right. It will be difficult to prove any theft.

  I eventually drift off to sleep, my mind troubled by memories of the man with the scarred face. A knock at my door wakes me and I realise I have overslept, as bright daylight streams through my window. The throbbing ache in my head is reducing, helped by a sour-tasting potion of willow bark Juliette sweetened with a little honey and made me drink. Pulling on my clothes, I open the door to see Nathaniel.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Nathaniel looks unusually cheerful. ‘I’ve had an idea. The men who attacked you must have told the stable grooms to keep out of the way when you returned from London. Someone should know them.’

  ‘Of course.’ I gesture for Nathaniel to enter. ‘It could be the only way to find someone prepared to give evidence against Samuel Cleaver.’

  Nathaniel sits in one of the leather chairs while I put on my boots. ‘We must find out who was supposed to have been on duty in the stables. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  We head back to find the captain of the guard. It doesn’t take long before a young stable lad is arrested and locked in a cell in the guard room. He cowers in one corner and looks doubtful about my promise to protect him in return for giving evidence. We know he is the one who should have been on duty in the stables on the evening of the attack, so it is only a matter of time before we make him talk.

  I try again. ‘Tell me where I can find these three men or you’ll be charged with conspiracy to steal from the crown.’ I look at the young boy. ‘You understand what that will mean?’

  ‘If I help you find them, sir, will I be allowed to keep my job?’ He looks desperate. ‘It’s all I have.’

  I feel some sympathy for the stable boy, who was unlucky to be caught up in Cleaver’s plans. ‘We’ll see. Where can we find the men?’

  ‘The man with the scar...’ The boy hesitates, frightened of the consequences of helping me or of remaining silent.

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘He warned me to keep away from the stables, sir.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘No, sir, but I think I know where he can be found.’

  I turn to the captain, who has been watching the questioning with interest. ‘Can you send some men with him?’

  ‘Of course,’ the captain agrees, ‘leave it to me.’

  ‘If I’m any judge he’ll talk soon enough.’ I watch the stable boy massaging his wrists as the iron handcuffs are removed and hope my instinct is right. I understand how the boy is frightened of the three men and there doesn’t seem to be any poi
nt in sacking him from his job. ‘Good luck and remember—it is as much in your interests as mine that we find these men.’

  The stable boy understands only too well. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  I realise I am late for my meeting with the queen, and as I approach her apartments I wonder again about Duke Humphrey’s words. Loyalty and trust are complicated things. The duke trusts me, but I have a greater obligation to the queen. I knock on the door and enter. The queen is alone and I see I have kept her waiting.

  She is dressed for the winter chill, with a dark, long-sleeved dress and a fur cape over her shoulders. Her hair is hidden by an elaborate French headdress. I don’t find it flattering, as her headdress draws attention to her slender neck, making it look even longer. I find myself wondering how she looks with her hair down, over her shoulders.

  ‘Good morning, my lady.’

  The queen studies me as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I am sorry to hear you were attacked. You should have had an escort from the palace guard. The road to London is notorious for robbers.’

  I have already decided to make light of it. ‘Fortunately I carried nothing of value, so if they intended to rob me they were disappointed.’

  ‘And the duke? Was he also disappointed?’

  ‘Duke Humphrey seems content with the list of names I gave him.’

  ‘Good. Although I feel his methods are... underhand. If he wishes to know whom I am meeting with, all he needs to do is ask.’

  ‘He is a thorough man. I believe he has your best interests, and those of the young king, at heart in this.’

  ‘It sounds as if he has won you over?’

  ‘They say to keep your friends close—and your enemies closer.’

  ‘Is Duke Humphrey of Gloucester an enemy, or a friend?’

  ‘For now, he is a friend.’ I wonder how much to reveal. ‘Although you are right, he is no friend of your guardian, Bishop Henry Beaufort.’

  The queen looks at me with new respect. ‘You have done well to make something from this situation.’