An arrangement had already been agreed, messengers galloping between Middleham and Ludlow, that the Duke of Gloucester and Earl Rivers should meet and combine their forces, finally entering London together and with the Protector at the young king’s side. Yet, following the great Watling Street from the Welsh Marches, the king’s party did not divert, nor look to delay their progress. It was as they camped overnight at the small village of Stony Stratford that word was brought of the Duke of Gloucester’s speedy and unexpected arrival at Northampton, not far distant. The earl regarded the messenger with controlled anger.
‘My lord,’ the messenger spoke quickly, ‘his grace of Gloucester travels fast, with a small well-mounted retinue.’
Secure in the knowledge that his sister the dowager queen and his nephew the Marquess of Dorset would have begun to secure their influence as the king’s declining health became obvious, and even before his death took place, Earl Rivers had good reason to believe the greater powers in London would already be Woodville adherents. He had therefore, considering it advisable for the new king to enter London in company of himself and not the Protector, planned to arrive at least a full day ahead of the Duke of Gloucester. That the Protector’s smaller retinue had enabled a faster journey than Rivers had expected was unfortunate.
‘You need not ride to Northampton to meet his grace,’ Earl Rivers explained to his royal charge. ‘We are already nearer London, and since that is our ultimate objective, there seems little gain in tiresome diversions. No doubt your highness is already tired?’
‘Not entirely, uncle.’ The king was cautious.
‘You must sleep, my boy,’ the earl said. ‘I shall ride back myself and inform his grace of your intentions. Without an explanation, Gloucester is as likely to come galloping up here, troops at his back. That’s something I mean to avoid. Leave everything to me. I shall ride to meet him, but will be back here with you in the morning.’
The new king, nervous, excited and inexperienced, as usual took his Uncle Rivers’ advice.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The river was not in flood and the tide was low, lying smooth between her banks. But Tyballis stood on the little swaying pier, staring down in terror at the water between the cracks. Casper, already on his knees and leaning over to unhook one of the bobbing wherry boats, looked back at her over his shoulder.
‘Expecting storms, is we?’
‘No – it isn’t – I’m not.’ Tyballis clasped her hands, keeping them still. ‘But I have to admit being a little nervous of the river.’
‘Bleedin’ water’s flat enough for them ducks to sleep on,’ Casper objected. ‘And so low I can see the turds at the bottom. Look,’ he pointed.
Tyballis shook her head. ‘There’s rocks,’ she whispered, ‘over there. I can see them peeping up out of the waves.’
‘There ain’t no waves,’ Casper insisted. ‘What’s the matter with you, lady? And them’s ain’t bloody rocks neither – them’s just reflections. Buggering stars, they is. Now talking o’ rocks – down past Southampton I seen a ship come in once, full sail with waves at her stern would put the fear of the devil into a bishop. Crushed on the rocks, it were, with bloody splinters and men screaming –’
‘Please don’t,’ begged Tyballis. ‘I have a shocking fear of water. Particularly the river. But at least it isn’t high tide.’
‘We got hours afore high tide,’ Casper assured her. ‘Don’t you worry none. You’ll be all right with old Casper. Promised Mister Cobham, I did. You look after her, he says. Well, maybe I ain’t done too well with that so far, but I’ve lived close to mother Thames all my life, and she don’t fright me none. As it happens, my Da were a wherryman.’
Tyballis looked at him dubiously through the dark. ‘You once told me your father was –’
‘Don’t matter none,’ Casper interrupted her quickly. ‘Reckon my Da were a man o’ many talents. Now, you just step down here.’ He had brought the boat to the side of the quay, leading it by its rope to where the wooden ladder led directly down into the river. Tyballis regarded it with horrified distrust. ‘I’ll carry you, if you likes,’ Casper offered, watching her expression. ‘But don’t reckon you’d like that much neither.’
She shook her head, kept her chin high and without looking down, she started to feel for each rung. It was only four steps until she hit the side of the boat. Casper held it steady, and Tyballis climbed in. She sat on the small bench, feet tight together, arms crossed around herself, and shivered. Casper hopped in beside her, took the opposite seat and began to pick the lock that held the oars horizontal to the narrow gunwales, heaved them out and began to row. Tyballis sat rigid and clutched the bench beneath her. The night breeze was cold. The stars’ reflections danced alongside, keeping pace. Casper rowed fast and even. At first Tyballis closed her eyes, squeezing them shut and thinking of her sweetest memories, of childhood, of discovering Cobham Hall, sunshine over the chicken shed and the huge dishevelled bedchamber with its massive bed, and finally of Andrew’s arms around her. But her thoughts cheated her, and conjured other darker memories, until she felt again the filthy water above her head and the gurgle of chugging waves filling her ears. She opened her eyes with a snap.
They had passed the soaring stone of The Tower on their right, and Casper had rowed quickly beneath the Bridge. There had been no gushing swell between the pillars, its huge shadows barely noticeable in the night’s moonless black. But now, directly in front of them, a lantern hung, seeming suspended in the river’s width, its sudden light distorting the boat that held it. Then there was a shout. A small wherry, crossing from Southwark towards the Three Cranes Wharf, was directly in their path and a man, kneeling out from the prow, held the lantern that flickered on its pole, splashing golden circles onto the bow wave. Behind sat four men, two rowing, the others peering through the darkness. It was the man at the prow who shouted.
Tyballis stared, unblinking. ‘We’ll crash,’ she whispered. ‘It will all happen again. This time I shall drown.’
‘Away with you, fool,’ the man was shouting from the other boat.
‘You swiving bastards,’ Casper yelled back, breathless, panting, rowing hard, ‘slow your pace or you’ll capsize us.’
Someone in the other boat laughed. His voice rang clear in the silence of the night. ‘We’re on the dowager queen’s business, and will slow for no one, clod. Move yourself. Get those arms bending and row faster lest we sink you.’
Someone else from the back of the boat pointed. ‘It ain’t just the lumpkin. There’s a woman.’
‘Let ’em swallow water,’ chuckled the first. ‘Is the female pretty? If she is, I’ll fish her out. Then we’ll do her a favour and strip her wet clothes off her.’
‘Can’t see in the dark. Probably some old crone. Hold up the lantern, Murch.’ The lantern swung. The sweep of flaring flame bobbed its light on the black water below. The sooty smell of burning charcoals mingled with the rank stench of the river. Then the light settled bright and clear.
Clinging blindly to the bench, Tyballis saw, heard and gasped. She looked into the eyes of the man who had broken into Cobham Hall and imprisoned them all. She recognised him as he recognised her. Murch shouted, ‘It’s the same raggy trollop from that house. What’s she doing here?’ He nearly tumbled head first from the boat.
‘Who’s that?’