They sat, five men facing each other, Nicholas, Jerrid, David, and the two strangers, boots to the bench opposite, faces obscured by intention, by shadow, and by their cups. The tavern was crowded but few took notice of those deep in private conversation. Cursing in French, Breton, Cornish, Kentish and Flemish, port slang and the crudities of men long at sea. Drunken men speak loud, and curse louder. Dialect and language were interwoven with shadow and the inevitable shifting layers of coastal smells; driftwood and crusted weed, damp brambles and windswept reeds, old oyster shells scattered underfoot, fish scales basted to boot and cape, stale beer, rancid cheese, warm sweat, bad breath, unwashed bodies and the great overwhelming swell of ocean brine. As the door rattled, was pushed open and kicked shut, so the wind carried its stories and its chill, while the men squeezed further into the tavern and clutched their cups.
“And Urswick?”
“That part of the business is now over. Urswick himself got away,” Nicholas said softly. “But his letter did not. I have the pouch inside my doublet, and my knuckles still itch from the bristles on the messenger’s chin. The wretch himself I let free since I’d not enough men to arrest and hold him. Two of his companions are dead.”
“I’ll take the news straight to my Lord Brampton,” said the small man. “Will I take the pouch as well?”
“No,” Jerrid said. “My nephew and I will take the letter to Westminster and the king ourselves. You should return to Brittany. If Dorset makes another attempt to escape from France, he’ll need all the help you can offer.”
“I will, my lord. And the letter – if you’ve seen it – is as expected?”
Nicholas sighed. “It is. From Tudor to my Lord of Northumberland, asking for backing and recommendation in the matter of marriage. The king will not be pleased.”
“He’s long mistrusted Northumberland,” Jerrid said. “The Percies – the Nevilles – old jealousies – old rivalries and each loathing the other. Back when his grace governed the north, Northumberland sat quiet, nursing his grievances. But he never forgets.”
“Damned Northerners.”
“While you Southerners,” grinned Nicholas, “are all fair minded lovers of forgiveness and justice.”
“We are, my lord. Though I’ll make an exception for Henry Tudor. That young man will make more mischief yet.”
“A man of mischief indeed. Aiming to wed a wealthy Herbert girl, and into Northumberland’s own family? It’s a grand ambition for a landless exile. But I thought there was another ambition? To wed one of the old king’s daughters, wasn’t it? Some declaration from Brittany of wanting to wed Elizabeth or Cecily?”
Nicholas shook his head. “Indeed, it was what he wanted, though the dowager made no agreement. Her daughters may be declared bastards, but they’re still daughters of a king and now one is due to marry a Portuguese prince.”
“Perhaps,” Jerrid shook his head, “Tudor heard the rumour put around that our king planned to marry his niece – taking the elder girl Elizabeth for himself? And so Tudor thought he’d need to look elsewhere?”
“Perhaps.” Nicholas leaned back. “But I’ve an idea those rumours were spread by Tudor’s mother herself, or at least by her friends and household. Of which Urswick is one.”
It was outside in the stables where the first attack came. Wolt was crouched beside the straw bales, avoiding hooves and crying, nose and tears dribbling onto his knees. Harry stood over him, one fist raised. “If you keep snivelling,” he threatened, “and if you tells me just once more time how you misses your Ma, I’ll shove this fist right down your gullet.”
The blow came immediately, the rock to the back of Harry’s skull and the boot to his groin. Wolt stopped crying, stared into the face of the attacker, then scrambled silently back behind the straw. What he saw had made a great deal of sense and so, frightened, he remained very quiet. Not daring to wriggle, he peeped between the bales as Harry was searched then kicked aside. Four men, small, busy, intent, fingers exploring, shaking heads and backing off, were quick and efficient. Eventually when the intruders had left and been gone long enough to seem safe, Wolt crept forwards and stared around him.
He bent over Harry, listening and touching, frightened to face death yet again. But Harry was breathing, a forced and guttural wheeze. Hesitating a moment, Wolt looked over towards the tavern. It was still open with the raucous echo of singing, of drunken men laughing and swearing and reminders of the familiar pleasant evenings he had once spent in such places with his mother and her friends. He sighed, then ran straight for the second stable block where he hoped Rob and perhaps his masters would already be preparing for departure. He could hear the horses neighing and snorting, a close reminder of what he feared and disliked.
It was dark. The stars blinked sleepy from behind the clouds and even the gulls slept. The wind blew Wolt’s hair into his eyes and he did not see the man hiding behind the water butt until it was too late.
The singing was too loud. Nicholas smiled, edging past the crowd as the last drinkers tumbled from the open doors into the little courtyard outside. Three men, arm in arm, were in chorus. “Oh, the long golden curls, soft virgin’s ringlets both here – and down there –” with great laughter and approval from their companions.
Then Jerrid called and pointed. “Nicholas, get over there. What the devil is that?”
Nicholas knelt, turning over the small crooked body lying on the beaten earth. When he laid it back down, his fingers were sticky with blood. “Sweet Jesus,” Nicholas whispered, “has the child been out here dying while I sat drinking inside?”
“He’s dead then?” Jerrid came beside, kneeling in the dirt.
“He’s still warm. But yes, the boy’s dead. A long knife to the back, well aimed below the ribs.” Nicholas stood, looking around. “Find Harry and Rob. But watch out for any further attack.” He lifted the boy from the hardening blood puddles and the dirt, and carried him towards the smaller stable block. Already he could hear the grooms boys shouting and the disturbance of the horses. Jerrid followed. David ran ahead, pushing open the loose hinged doors, calling for Harry and Rob.
Rob stumbled up from the straw. “They got the boy? And someone got my Harry down with a blow to the head. But my brother’s no weakling. He’s coming round now, with a mug of ale to bring his wits back. Bastards were after that letter, I reckon.”
Nicholas laid Wolt’s small thin body on the ground beyond the reach of hooves or boots. The two stable boys stared and David pushed them back. “My lord, you’re sure he’s beyond help?”
“Poor little urchin. He’s beyond any help I can give him except arranging for a decent funeral.”
“That’ll hold us up, my lord.”
“The boy had no advantages in life. I meant to do him a kindness by taking him on, but it’s proved no kindness in the end. The least we can do is say a prayer and see him into consecrated ground.” Nicholas stepped back and looked over to where Rob cradled Harry. “You’re not badly hurt? Then tell me exactly what happened.”
Harry groaned. “I’d just told the little bugger to stop snivelling,” he muttered, “and then knew no more meself. My bloody head bloody hurts and I can’t see nothing straight.”
“Can’t see nothing anyways,” complained Rob. “Since it’s bloody dark.”
Jerrid nodded to one of the stable boys. “It’s light we need,” he said. “Light the lantern, boy, and let’s see the state of these wounds.” Wolt’s small crumpled face was white, his shoulders now rigid. Down the back of his shirt the blood had streaked the grubby linen in huge viscous stripes. “But I judge it a quick death,” he looked to Nicholas, “if that consoles you. Someone stuck his knife where he knew it would kill fast. Well practised, I’d say.”