He came with four men at his back, but he entered the storeroom alone. The men behind him held torches, a stream of light pouring like sudden liquid gold through the interior shadows. Warned by the grating of the key at the door, Ralph, Casper and the others sat quietly. They looked up as the captain strode in, and rubbed their eyes at the glare of sudden light. ‘Your bastard friend killed a good man,’ said Ralph. ‘He’s lying dead back there. He needs a Christian burial.’
Captain Hetchcomb stared down at them all. ‘Get up, you scum, and address me with respect. Let me see you.’
No one moved. Then Casper grinned wide and toothless. ‘We wants food and drink, and the corpse took out and treated decent. Then we’ll think about a little cooperation. But forget respect. That ain’t never coming your way.’
On the verge of losing his temper, the captain suddenly changed his mind. ‘I’ll make no deals with you treacherous rabble,’ he said, ‘but for the moment, I want you buggers alive.’ He turned to his men. ‘Fetch beer and bread, if you can find any. Not too much, mind. Alive, yes, but weak and compliant is how I want ’em. And if there’s some carcass stinking the place in here, get it out. Sling the body out the back in the chicken shed where the other four dead buggers is piled.’
Ralph stood abruptly. ‘We demand fair treatment,’ he said. ‘We’re nobody’s enemy and have done nothing except defend ourselves from thieves breaking into our home. If you’re looking for Lord Feayton, then look elsewhere, for he’s not here, nor will be. Try looking at Westminster.’
Jon Spiers stood nervously beside Ralph. ‘We have small children,’ he mumbled, ‘needing warmth and food. Why do you keep us prisoner?’
‘With the king dead,’ the captain announced, ‘there’s a new power in the city. It’s the Marquess of Dorset giving the orders, and you’ll do best to remember that. Do as you’re told, or suffer for it.’
George Switt’s body was hauled across the dusty boards. ‘We’ll have the boots from that one,’ one of the men muttered. ‘Better than mine, they is, and more or less the same size, by the look of them.’
‘Take what you likes,’ the captain growled over his shoulder. ‘But hurry up and get the bugger out. Now, bread and beer for this lot, and a hearty meal for the rest of us. I’ve missed my dinner and will need a proper breakfast afore sun-up.’
It was a little later that a small keg of beer was brought in, and an armful of black bread. Ralph immediately rationed both. The children stopped crying and munched, grouped around Felicia’s legs. Tyballis waved the bread away. ‘A day without food won’t hurt me,’ she murmured. ‘I haven’t the heart for eating.’
‘Eat up, girl,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘We’ve plans to make.’
‘No plan turns time backwards,’ sighed Ralph. ‘If the king is dead indeed, then all Drew’s efforts are for nothing.’ He chewed the stale cheat, and gulped a mouthful of beer. ‘Seems the Woodvilles took charge already. Rivers will bring the prince from Ludlow with an armed guard. Then if Drew comes back with the Duke of Gloucester, it’ll be war.’
‘Rivers can’t leave Wales yet,’ Tyballis shook her head. ‘He’ll need to mourn his king whether it’s genuine or not. We know it’s five days’ ride from Yorkshire. It’s maybe less from Ludlow. Perhaps they’ll all arrive in London together.’
‘If’n we’s still alive to see,’ sniffed Casper, finishing his beer.
Not knowing when they might receive more, they conserved their candles, the beer and the bread. Shuffling drearily through the shadows, they wrapped blankets around their shoulders, and sat on their spread mattresses, keeping close for warmth. They heard their captors, but saw no more of them for some time. Two chamber pots, found amongst the stored furniture, were placed at the far end of the room, but these soon overflowed and could not be emptied. The smaller children, dragging soaked nether-cloths, pissed where they sat, which included their elders’ laps. Ralph, Felicia and Tyballis told stories of Sir Gawain and King Arthur. Each of the group told their own personal histories, embellished a little to add spice and flavour. They spoke of what they feared, and what they hoped. They discussed what they might do to escape from their imprisonment, and of what they imagined was happening beyond their walls. Jon and Felicia’s children played, desultory and hungry, then with sudden bursts of energy as one small boy chased another and both hurtled into sobbing balls as they collided. The baby Gyles sickened and stayed in his mother’s arms or clung to his sister Ellen. Hour after hour she trotted the room’s length, jiggling the whining baby on her small skinny hip while his piss and vomit trickled down her skirt, her precious new dress now stinking and ragged.
News of the king’s passing was sent out to every city, every great lord’s castle and every township. Messengers galloped to the Welsh Marches and the uneasy borders with Scotland. All across the land unrest grew, folk dragged to their churches for the great dirge, wondering how it could have happened and fearing what might happen next. Foreign spies sent surmise and slanderous gossip back to their own sovereigns, while official letters with the royal seal of England arrived at exactly the same time, carrying news far more succinct, far less scurrilous and considerably less interesting. The Holy Roman Emperor, the Duke of Burgundy, the monarchs of Spain and the various doges of the Italian states were notified immediately. The French King Louis XI was informed, and sat back, well satisfied. In his exile in Brittany, Henry Tudor heard, and smiled. In all these places, and all across England, rumour travelled as fast as the official messengers, and while fact spoke of a lingering illness ending in the royal death from some unexplained cause, rumour spoke of strange and unnatural diseases, of portents, of sinful luxuries, of debauchery, gluttony and poison.
As his highness lay in state in a lead-lined coffin within the Abbey, so her highness the queen, her eldest son at her back, began to manoeuvre for ultimate power. It was they who summoned a meeting of the late king’s council. The Marquess of Dorset, for all the late king’s friendship, had never been a political advisor, simply an ally and companion in lechery. But he now entered the council chamber with his mother, claiming to represent the young king-to-be and as such was not denied. The existing council members, under mounting duress, took sides. Few dared oppose the close Woodville relatives of an imminent child-king.
Dorset and the dowager queen placed themselves at the council’s head and conducted business. Principal amongst matters awaiting a decision was the date of the coronation. Once crowned, though a twelve years minor, the new king might choose his own advisors, and he was already his mother’s son long controlled by his maternal uncle. Prince Edward, in his uncle’s protective custody, was now officially called to the capital from his home in distant Ludlow. Her highness, as if the ultimate authority, signed the document.
‘My son must come with a grand cavalcade,’ the queen advised. ‘There is considerable unrest in London. My dearest brother Earl Rivers is already authorised to raise armed troops in the prince’s name. Now he will exercise that right. The new sovereign shall arrive safeguarded by a mighty procession.’
Lord Hastings glared. ‘Madam. A king does not arrive in his capital city equipped for war against his own people. I’ll not countenance any force of arms.’
Dorset banged his fist upon the table. ‘You’ll risk the boy’s assassination? What treachery is this?’
‘The people don’t threaten their future king,’ Hastings roared. ‘It’s the Woodville upstarts they hate, not their beloved king’s son.’