The Green Man (9 page)

But it was at that particular point that my tired brain refused to be teased any longer and, with the sun rising on another day, I at last fell asleep. Not for long, of course. All too soon the trumpets were blaring in the camp beyond Fotheringay's grim walls, servers were hurrying up from the kitchens with jugs of hot shaving water and the whole castle wakened to life. Through a fog of sleep, I remembered that today we set out for York either under the command of the King or under that of His Grace the Duke of Gloucester.

To no one's surprise, it turned out to be the duke who would lead us – eventually – into Scotland. As soon as King Edward entered the great hall after breakfast, it was obvious to all but the meanest intelligence that he was in no fit state of health to head a military expedition. His face had taken on an even greyer tinge than it had worn the previous evening and he was supported on both sides, leaning heavily on the arms of Lord Hastings and his elder stepson, the Marquis of Dorset. There was a sheen of sweat across his forehead; and the way in which he dropped thankfully into his chair at the head of the council table proclaimed that his legs were in imminent danger of collapsing under him.

His first words, therefore, were to announce that he was passing over command of the army to his dearly beloved brother, the Duke of Gloucester, whom we were all to obey as we would himself. Prince Richard, rising from his seat, knelt to kiss the king's hand and promised faithfully to carry out the royal commands.

‘Berwick shall be yours again, my liege, if we die in the attempt.'

A cheer went up at these words from the assembled nobility. All very well, I thought to myself, but it will be the poor bloody foot soldiers who do most of the dying. Then a sense of justice made me revise this opinion. I knew Richard of Gloucester by repute to be a valiant soldier, not afraid to put himself in the thick of any fight should his presence be needed. As a young man he had fought valiantly for his eldest brother at the battle of Barnet, when Edward returned to England eleven years previously to reclaim his crown. In the vanguard of his men, he had helped to carry the day. And a month or so later, his actions on the bloody field of Tewkesbury had again brought the Yorkist faction victory and preserved his brother's throne …

My wandering thoughts were interrupted by the general surge of movement as the council disbanded. The king had risen to his feet and was embracing his brother, tears of weakness glistening on his sunken cheeks. He held the duke tightly as though loath to let him go, and it seemed to me that no one who saw them could help but be struck by the contrast between them; one, once so handsome and athletic and strong, now a sad wreck of a man, worn out by a life of excess; the other, so fragile in youth that his life had more than once been despaired of, now a creature as healthy and lithe as a whippet, his skin tanned by wind and sun, his dark eyes alive and eager in his thin, sallow face.

The king next turned to Albany, his embrace more perfunctory than the one he had bestowed on my lord Gloucester, but warm enough and sufficiently prolonged to impress those watching with a sense of the duke's importance. But although he addressed him fondly as ‘Cousin' it was plain – to me at any rate – that true affection was lacking, as he adjured Albany not to forget, once he was crowned, the urgent matter of the Princess Cicely's dowry.

‘Our coffers are not so full, my dear fellow, that we can afford to forgo its return.'

Albany smiled thinly; a smile that failed to reach his eyes.

‘I never imagined for a second that Your Highness had any intention of relinquishing his claim. Once my brother is deposed –' the words ‘and dead' weren't uttered, but I think we could all hear them, echoing in the air – ‘I shall, of course, be Your Highness's liege man of life and limb.'

There was a snort of laughter, hastily suppressed. Heads half-turned, searching for the culprit, but every face was smooth and stern: there was no telling who had let his natural scepticism get the better of his credulity. But whoever it was, was being more honest than the rest. The king frowned and pretended not to have heard.

The company began to disperse. Duke Richard issued his orders that we were to be on the march by noon. There were some miles to be covered before nightfall on the first stage of our journey to York.

I returned with Albany to our apartments where James Petrie was overseeing the packing of the duke's chests and jewel caskets with the help of two of the castle's lackeys, acting under his mimed directions; for they, like me, were unable to understand his broad Scots dialect. I wondered if he, too, spoke better English than he let on, but had no means at present of finding out. His gaunt, seamed face was even more careworn than usual and he elbowed me out of his way with what I guessed to be a muttered curse as I attempted to collect together my own meagre belongings and stow them in my satchel.

Donald Seton appeared to say that the baggage waggons were waiting and that my lord's gear must be taken out immediately if it was not to be left behind in the rush.

‘And John Tullo's below in the courtyard, my lord, with the bay. He thought you'd wish to ride him today. The animal's a bit restive, he says, from lack of exercise. He will be leading the other two.'

Albany nodded curtly, seated on the bed and watching almost absent-mindedly while the rest of us busied ourselves about his affairs. He had been thoughtful and inclined, most uncharacteristically, to be silent ever since we returned from the great hall.

‘Is everything ready?' he asked abruptly as the squire turned to leave the room.

Donald looked faintly surprised at the question and, if the truth were told, a little offended.

‘Of course, Your Grace,' he answered stiffly.

I noticed that he had given up all pretence at not being able to speak English, and also that Albany accepted this without question.

‘You've deceived me, my lord,' I said as Donald left the chamber. I folded a clean shirt and stuffed it into my satchel on top of a spare pair of hose. ‘You and your henchmen.'

At first, I didn't think that he had heard me, but then he raised his eyebrows in a haughty look. The friendliness had suddenly evaporated.

‘In what way?'

‘You all led me to believe that your squires and page could speak only Scots and were unable to understand English.'

He regarded me coldly.

‘I don't think we ever gave you to understand that, Roger. That was your own assumption.' He glanced across at his serving-man who was snarling something unintelligible at the two lackeys as they staggered out of the chamber, bearing the weight of one of the duke's three great chests. ‘Although it's true that James and John Tullo are most certainly not fluent in the English.'

‘But my lord,' I protested angrily, ‘did it never occur to you that Murdo or Donald or Davey might have overheard your suspicions of them? And what they know, they can easily communicate to the other two.'

The duke's face relaxed and he gave a little laugh. He slid off the bed and clapped me on the back.

‘No one's overheard us,' he assured me. ‘I've taken good care of that. Think back, my friend. There's been no one about. And now who's being incautious?' He nodded at James Petrie, just disappearing through the door to the ante-room. ‘If you're so suspicious, say nothing until we are alone.' He added sharply, ‘Do you have anything to tell me? I had a feeling there was some disturbance during the night, but I may have dreamed it. I was too exhausted to do more than nod straight off to sleep again.'

I hesitated. ‘There was something, my lord, but it will keep. It might be of importance, but then, it might not. The trumpets are blowing. Your Highness had better make his way to the courtyard. It surely won't do for you to be late. My lord of Gloucester will be waiting on your arrival. He can hardly set off without you.'

Albany grinned, his good humour restored by my flattery. I could never make out quite how cynical the man was about the chances of his becoming king of Scotland. Sometimes, he seemed to view those chances with amused detachment, looking upon this whole expedition as nothing more than an adventure; an opportunity to make life as difficult as possible for his hated elder brother. But then there were other times when he lapped up compliments and references to his future kingship as greedily and as eagerly as a child cramming its mouth with sweetmeats.

Fotheringay's huge courtyard was crowded and exceedingly noisy, the babel of sound contained within the surrounding walls, like a cup filled and overflowing with water. Horses neighed. Trumpets blared. The Duke of Gloucester and most of the nobles were already mounted, gentling their steeds and glancing around anxiously for Albany's arrival. A slight cheer went up as he finally emerged into the watery sunlight, a greeting he acknowledged with an ironical bow.

My lord of Gloucester was plainly unamused by such tardiness, but merely said, ‘Welcome, Cousin,' with a dryness of tone that might have conveyed annoyance to anyone with a less thick skin than my temporary master. Albany laughed.

John Tullo led up the bay and stood ready to assist the duke into the saddle. The two squires were slightly to the rear, waiting to mount their own horses, while I and the patient beast, who had already borne me so many weary miles, eyed one another with mutual suspicion. As far as I could see, Davey Gray and James Petrie were nowhere in view, the latter, in any case, always riding with the baggage waggons. What Davey did was a bit of mystery. Sometimes he attended upon the duke, but a great deal of the time he went missing. I wondered where he was during these absences, and might have suspected him of gaining experience of life amongst the horde of camp followers who straggled in the wake of the army, except that he so obviously had little interest in women.

Albany waved John Tullo aside and vaulted, unaided, into the saddle, displaying at one and the same time his superb physical fitness and his splendid horsemanship. But as he did so, the bay, who had been fidgeting only a very little, suddenly reared, whinnying furiously and slashing the air in front of him with vicious, flailing hooves.

There was a flurry of movement, as those in the vicinity wrenched their own steeds out of the way, and cries of alarm as it seemed certain that Albany must be thrown, and thrown badly. John Tullo leaped for the horse's head, but it was the duke's own unrivalled skill that finally brought the bay under control, and his voice, whispering soft endearments in its ear, that quietened the outraged animal.

The groom, white-faced and trembling, muttered something that only Albany and the squires understood. The duke gave an uncertain laugh.

‘Fresh, indeed, John,' was his answer, before turning to my lord of Gloucester and saying with bravado, ‘My groom warned me, Cousin, that the animal was restive after the inactivity of the past few days, but even he hadn't counted on quite how restive.' He made a sweeping gesture to include the other nobles, now crowding around him again in an admiring group, impressed, in spite of themselves, by his remarkable horsemanship. ‘There was no need for anxiety, my lords. None whatsoever. There was not a moment when I did not have the animal under control. You were in no danger, I assure you.'

There was a polite, if somewhat dubious murmur.

Lord Stanley said diplomatically, ‘The anxiety was not for ourselves, Your Grace, but for Your Grace's own person. You might have been very seriously injured, had you been thrown.'

Northumberland nodded agreement.

‘Very seriously injured,' he concurred, adding infelicitously, ‘If not killed.'

I saw the Duke of Gloucester's sudden frown and quick glance round, the first swiftly smoothed away with a pleasant smile and the second curbed in mid-movement.

‘I'm sure there was no danger of that, my lord. Our Cousin of Scotland is noted as an equestrian of great style and flair. And now, gentlemen, we must set forward if the army is to be even halfway to Leicester by nightfall.' There was a general murmur of assent. Duke Richard turned once again to Albany. ‘You are recovered, Cousin?'

‘Recovered?' Albany's tone was disdainful. ‘What is there to recover from, my lord? As you can see, the animal is perfectly well-behaved now. He has always had a little playfulness in his disposition.'

But playfulness, I thought to myself as I mounted my own placid steed, was not the word I would have used. The bay had been seriously put out by something. He had most definitely been harmed in some way; a dig, a prod, a cut, maybe, with the tip of somebody's knife. I had seen the whites of his eyes as he reared. And I had seen the whites of Albany's, too. There had been a moment, albeit fleeting, when he had been terrified.

I was not surprised, therefore, as we rode out through the great gates of Fotheringay, when he turned his head and said curtly, ‘Stay close, Roger.'

‘Yes, my lord.'

I took up my position a pace or two behind the rump of his horse, not caring who I jostled out of my path as I did so. I tried to picture to myself the scene as John Tullo had led up the bay for the duke to mount. The two squires had definitely been there, and either one of them could have made the animal rear. Any movement in that crush would have passed unnoticed, and I had been too busy contemplating the unwelcome ride ahead of me to pay Murdo and Donald any particular attention. It was inexcusable: I knew full well that after the events of the previous night, I should have been alert and on my guard against mischief. I was failing in my duty; and if any harm were to befall Albany, it would be the worse for me. I owed it to myself, as well as to the duke, to be more vigilant.

It was as the brilliant cavalcade streamed across the flat Northamptonshire plain, banners bravely waving and flapping taut in a freshening breeze, that I had a sudden, clear vision of that tableau in the courtyard. I could see again the two squires and the tension on Donald Seton's face as John Tullo had led the bay forward for Albany to mount. I wondered that it had not struck me at the time that the man was as taut as a fiddle string. Had he been waiting for something to happen? Or had he simply been afraid that some mischief was brewing? I tried to recall the look on his companion's face, but Murdo's expression rarely, if ever, gave anything away.