Another knife went between Jack’s ribs, staying stuck there as he wrenched away from the pain. With a sense of wonder and shock, he felt his great strength vanish. He crashed down, quickly kicked and battered into a daze, with his fingers broken and his axe wrenched away from his grasp.
Jack was only half-aware as they dragged him up for Sheriff Iden to stare at him. There was blood on Jack’s face and in his mouth. He spat weakly as strangers held him in an unbreakable grip. His friends had been cut down, left in their own blood where they had fallen. Jack swore as he saw their bodies, cursing the king’s men all around him.
‘Which of you fools stabbed him?’ Jack heard Iden snap. The sheriff was furious and the soldiers looked at their feet, panting and red-faced. ‘Damn it! He won’t live till London with that wound.’
Jack smiled to hear that, though it hurt him. He could feel his life pouring out on to the dusty ground and he was only sorry Ecclestone hadn’t cut the new sheriff’s throat.
‘Tie this traitor on to a horse,’ Iden went on furiously. ‘God, didn’t I say he should be taken alive?’
Jack shook his head, feeling oddly cold despite the warmth of the sun. For an instant, he thought he heard the high voices of children, but then it was gone and he sagged in the arms of the men who held him.
32
Dawn rain drizzled across Windsor Hunting Park, cold and gusting April showers that did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the lords who had gathered at the king’s command. Derry Brewer had been right about that much, Margaret had to admit, shivering slightly. Still yawning from what little sleep she had managed, she looked out across the vast fields, with the smudge of dark forests beyond. During the reign of her husband’s father, royal hunts had been organized every year, with hundreds of nobles and their servants descending on the royal grounds to take deer or demonstrate their skill with falcons and dogs. The feasts that followed were still famous and when she had asked Derry what would bring even the Neville lords to Windsor, his response had been immediate and without thought. She suspected even a normal hunt would have brought them, after seeing so many flushed faces and the delighted pride in men like Earl Salisbury returning with his servants laden down by hares and pheasants, or the buck deer Lord Oxford had taken. Her husband had not ridden to the hunt in a decade and the royal grounds teemed with prey. The first two nights had been spent in lavish feasts, with musicians and dancing to keep their wives happy, while the men tore into the succulent meat they had taken, boasting and laughing at the events of the day. It had been a success in every way that mattered — and the main draw was still to come.
Margaret had been down to the stables of the castle to see the two captive boars they would release that morning. Duke Philip of Burgundy had sent the beasts as a gift, perhaps in part to mark his sorrow at the death of William de la Pole. For that alone, she blessed his name, though his offer of sanctuary to William meant she would always think of him as a friend. Male boars were the monarchs of the deep forest, the only animals in England capable of killing the men who hunted them. She shuddered at the recollection of the massive, reeking bodies and the fierce anger in their small eyes. In her childhood, she had once seen dancing bears in Saumur, when a travelling fair came to Anjou. The hogs in the stalls had twice the bulk of those animals, with bristles as thick as a bear’s brown fur and backs as wide as a kitchen table. It made sense that as a gift between noble houses they would be fine examples of the breed, but she had still not been prepared for the sheer size of the grunting animals as they kicked and nudged the wooden stalls and made dust rain down from the roof. To Margaret’s eye, they had as much resemblance to a succulent butcher’s pig as a lion does to a household cat. The hunt master had spoken of them in awe, saying each one was said to weigh four hundred pounds and carried a pair of matched tusks as long as a man’s forearm. Margaret had seen the near mindless threat in the animals as they gouged the stalls with those tusks, gnawing and scraping, furious at being unable to reach their captors.
She knew Earl Warwick had taken to calling them Castor and Pollux, warriors and twins from ancient Greek tales. It was common knowledge that the young Richard Neville was intent on taking one of the heads home with him, though there were many others who eyed the great sweep of the tusks with delight and longing. True boars had been hunted almost to vanishing in England and there were few among the gathering in Windsor who had brought one down. Margaret had been hard-pressed not to laugh at the endless advice between the men on the subject, whether it was better to use the catch dogs to hold it steady, then seek its heart with an arrow, or whether a spear-thrust between the ribs was more effective.
She ran her hand over the swell of her womb, feeling again the intense satisfaction of being pregnant. She had endured the bitterness of having York named as royal heir, saying nothing for all the time it seemed Parliament had been right to prepare for the worst. Then she had felt the first signs and turned back and forth in front of mirrors, convinced she was imagining it. The bulge had grown with every week, a wonder to her and an answer to a thousand fervent prayers. Even the sickness was a delight to her as the child grew. All she had needed then was for the earls of England to see the signs, the curve of her womb that meant York’s games had come to nothing.
‘Be a son,’ she muttered to herself, as she did a dozen times each day. She longed for daughters, but a son would secure the throne for her husband and her line. A son would cast Richard and Cecily York out into the darkness, with all their plots in tatters. The thought gave her more pleasure than she could express and she found her hand was gripping her cup so tightly that the gemstones around the rim left a print on her palm.
Richard of York had not been invited to the Windsor hunt. Though he had inherited the title of Earl of March, he was the only one of the twelve English earls and ‘king’s companions’ not to be called to Windsor for the hunt. No doubt his supporters would consider it another insult to an ancient family, but she had made the decision even so. Let them think and say what they would. She did not want that man and his cold wife anywhere near her or her husband. Margaret still blamed York for the death of Lord Suffolk and, though it had never been proved, she suspected him of involvement in Cade’s rebellion and all the damage and pain it had caused. Cade’s head sat high on a spike on the same bridge he had fought his way across. Margaret had gone to see it.
One of the hovering servants stepped forward to refill her cup, but she waved him away. For months, her stomach had clenched and protested at much of anything. Even watered wine had to be taken in small amounts and most of her nourishment came in the form of thin broths that she would lose as often as she kept them down. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the Neville lords had seen her gravid state, her proof that King Henry’s bloodline would run on and not be lost. The moment when Earl Warwick had frozen and stood staring on their first meeting in the castle had been one of the happiest of her life. York would be told now, she knew. Her husband may have lost France, but he had survived. King Henry had not been crushed by rebellions, riots or plots — not even by the attack on London itself. Her husband lived, and all York’s plans and manoeuvres, all his bribery and flattery of supporters, had come to nothing as her womb swelled.