In fairness, how could the boy not be? Unlike his younger brother, the Duke of York, Prince Edward had been brought up in his own household at Ludlow, on the Welsh marches, under the tutelage of his maternal uncle, Earl Rivers, now riding a little ahead of me and conversing in his free and easy manner with his brother, Edward. A very popular man was the earl, but a Woodville to his fingertips, wedded to the interests of his sister, the queen, and to those of all the rest of the large Woodville clan, whose members were notoriously devoted to one another …
‘You’re daydreaming, Roger! Keep alert, man!’
Albany’s voice cut across my reverie, recalling me to my duty, but for once, I was grateful for the reprimand rather than resentful; glad to abandon the path down which my thoughts had been leading me and return to the world of sanity and common sense. The Duke of Gloucester’s enquiries concerning the possible fate of Albany’s nephews had been for some perfectly proper purpose unknown to me.
‘My lord.’
‘You’re supposed to be guarding me,’ the duke complained fretfully, his sunny mood of an hour ago having apparently turned sour in the meantime.
I should have liked to point out that the necessity he felt for my protection was as variable as a woman’s mind when she’s trying to decide what ribbon to buy to re-trim her Sunday gown. But I held my tongue. I realized that I needed Albany as much as he needed me, for I was now in a strange and foreign country, hundreds of miles from home, where language and customs were totally alien to me and where Albany was my only friend. Or, at least, the only person who cared what happened to me. It’s true that I was surrounded by fellow Englishmen, but not one of them (the Duke of Gloucester was far too preoccupied to spare me even a passing thought) cared a jot for my welfare or what might be my fate.
A mile or so further on, the advance party drew to a halt so that the riders could water their horses. I led my cob to the edge of the chattering stream and knelt down amongst the quivering rushes that bordered it, cupping my hands in order to drink, myself. The ice-cold water felt like silk, easing my parched throat and, when I had splashed it over my face, the smarting of the cuts on my lacerated chin. The day was turning warm (or warmer than it had been). Somewhere overhead a bird voiced its enchantment and the track stretching ahead of us glittered whitely under the morning sun, burnishing the tall tree trunks on the opposite bank. It sparked suddenly among the branches, dazzling my eyes …
For a second or two, I was blinded and while I stood blinking, trying to clear my sight, someone thrust something into my hand. I whirled about, but there were too many people and animals around for me to distinguish anyone clearly. I grabbed the nearest person, one of the Marquis of Dorset’s men judging by his silver and pink livery.
‘Did you see who gave me this?’ I demanded, waving my closed fist and still not sure as yet what ‘this’ was.
The fellow gave me a haughty stare, as befitted a retainer of the king’s stepson accosted by a nobody like myself. He did not deign to reply, so I asked one or two other people, but no one had seen anything. And they all plainly considered me mad to think that they might have done so. No one was interested.
Frustrated and angry, I eventually opened my hand to discover what it was that I’d been given, and found it to be a scrap of parchment with the single word ‘Beware’ written on it. I stared at it for a moment or two before tossing it into the water and watching it float away downstream. I almost plunged after it to grab it back, but decided to let it go. Someone was trying to make a fool of me.
Our lords and masters were now up in the saddle again and ready to move. I mounted the cob and thought savagely that once I was free of this whole mad adventure I would never willingly undertake a journey on horseback again. I was saddle-sore and weary, aching in places I hadn’t even known existed in my previous life. For that, more and more, was how I felt; as if I had died without knowing it, and for my sins been sent to hell.
Davey came to find me.
‘My lord’s asking for you. He says to keep up.’
‘What’s he afraid of? That I’ll run away?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Tell me why he should care.’
The page shrugged. ‘He must have told you that himself.’
‘But do you know?’
Davey looked round at me and I thought I saw a momentary awareness at the back of his eyes. But it vanished on the instant, leaving those violet-blue orbs as blank and expressionless as two pebbles.
Again, that worm of unease gnawed at my guts; and again, I dismissed it as nonsense.
I forced my way through the press of squires and body servants to Albany’s side to find him in heated altercation with Earl Rivers. Well, perhaps not heated: Anthony Woodville was too gentlemanly a man to raise his voice, but his tone and expression were both politely adamant.
‘His Grace says no, my lord. You must be at his side when he enters Edinburgh.’
‘And so I shall be,’ Albany answered hotly. ‘Roslin lies only a few miles west of here and a mere seven or so miles south of the capital. It would take me and my household half a day, maybe less, to ride there and back. I wish to pray at the chapel for God’s blessing on my enterprise. Is that so much to ask?’
‘Is there a chapel there?’ The earl looked faintly interested. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Probably not.’ Albany sounded defensive for some reason or another. ‘It was built less than forty years ago by a distant kinsman of a very dear friend of mine; by the last Sinclair Earl of Orkney.’
Earl Rivers, who had the reputation of being an extremely devout man (rumour had it that he even wore a penitential hair shirt beneath his splendid clothes) still shook his head regretfully.
‘I’m sorry, my lord, but His Grace of Gloucester is not to be moved on this. No one, above all, not yourself, is to leave his train. You of all people must know that we are within striking distance of Edinburgh, and although Prince Richard assumes that no resistance will be offered — not in the present circumstances — he cannot be certain, and will take no chances. Moreover, your safety is essential. He dare not risk your capture while on this expedition to … to Roslin, was that the name? And he does not wish, at this juncture, to spare an armed escort to go with you. Besides — ’ the king’s brother-in-law raised slightly satirical eyebrows — ‘there must be plenty of other shrines at which you can offer up prayers for the success of this venture. Scotland is surely not so pagan a country that it is devoid of chapels and churches?’
‘Of course not.’ Albany tried to look affronted, although there were times when I suspected him of being unorthodox in many of his religious views. (I had endeavoured, on several occasions, to draw him out on the subject by voicing a few of my own doubts and fears, but he had always refused to play my game, frustrating me with a quip or some light rejoinder.) ‘It’s just,’ he continued, ‘that I have a special fondness for the chapel at Roslin. I feel that to beg God’s blessing there, will …’ He broke off, looking flustered.
‘Bring you good luck?’ the earl finished for him, and permitted himself a small, cynical smile.
‘Oh well!’ Albany said hastily. ‘If my Cousin Gloucester refuses his permission, so be it. There will be time enough for a visit once we are settled in Edinburgh. And when I am king …’ He broke off, shrugging.
‘Of course.’ Anthony Woodville inclined his handsome head. ‘I will inform His Grace of your compliance with his wishes.’
‘I’ll do it myself,’ Albany snapped. ‘There’s no need for your lordship to constitute himself my errand boy. Roger! Davey!’ And the duke drove the bay horse, Pegasus, forward, pricked by a cruel spur.