his way past two outer rings of castle guards. York didn’t suffer fools and he would not be baulked in his desire to see the king that morning.
Somewhere close by, they could hear orders being roared and the tramp and jingle of marching soldiers. York’s movement towards the king’s private rooms was about to be met by armed men. The three with him loosened their swords in the scabbards, cracking knuckles and necks in anticipation. They had not spent years getting soft in England like the king’s guards. They were enjoying the prospect of meeting men they felt were only barely on the same side.
The duke loped forward, his strides long and sure. He saw two solid-looking pikemen guarding a doorway ahead and drew to a halt as he came right up to them.
‘Stand aside. I’m York, on urgent business for the king.’
The guards stiffened, their eyes staring. One of them glanced at his companion and the man shifted his grip on the pike uncomfortably. He was due to come off watch as soon as the sun cleared the battlements and he looked irritably at the gold thread showing on the horizon. Just a few minutes more and he would have been in the guardhouse, eating his breakfast and wondering what all the noise was about.
‘My lord, I have no orders to admit you,’ the guard said. He swallowed nervously as York turned his full glare on him.
‘That is the nature of urgent business. Get out of my way, or I’ll have you flogged.’
The guard swallowed and opened his mouth to reply, already shaking his head. As he began to repeat himself, York’s temper surged and broke. He gestured sharply and one of his men grabbed the guard by the throat with a gauntleted hand, pushing him off his feet as he crashed back against the door. The sound was loud, echoing around the outer walls. Someone walking up there yelled an alarm.
The guard struggled wildly and his companion jerked his pike down. Another of York’s men stepped inside the range of the heavy iron head and thumped a blow to the man’s chin that sent the pike and its owner clattering to the ground. The first guard was dispatched as quickly, with two fast punches that spread his nose across his face.
A troop of running guards appeared around a corner fifty yards away, led by a red-faced sergeant with his sword drawn. York glanced coldly in their direction as he opened the door and went through.
Inside, he stopped, looking back.
‘Francis, hold the door. You two, come with me,’ he ordered.
The biggest of the three men pressed his weight against the door, dropping the locking bar and holding it in place with both hands. It shuddered immediately as someone crashed against it from outside. Without another word, the duke broke into a run through the rooms beyond. The king’s private suite lay ahead and he knew Windsor well enough not to hesitate. At speed, he went across a tall-ceilinged empty hall and up a flight of steps, then skidded to a halt, his men almost running into him. The three of them stood breathing hard as York stared at the sight of Derihew Brewer leaning back against a low stone window that looked out over the vast hunting park of Windsor.
‘Morning, my lord. I’m afraid the king isn’t feeling well enough for visitors, if that’s who you’re after.’
‘Stand up when you’re talking to me, Brewer,’ the duke retorted, coming further into the room and stopping. His gaze swept around suspiciously, looking for some explanation for the spymaster’s confidence. With a sigh, Derry pushed himself away from the windowsill and yawned. On the floor below, they could all hear a rhythmic thumping as the guards outside began to batter the door down.
Derry glanced out of the window at files of soldiers running in all directions.
‘Bit of a brawl out there this morning, my lord. Your work, is it?’
York eyed the door that he knew led directly to the king’s apartments. It was solidly shut against him, with only Derry in the waiting room. Yet something about the man’s insolent smile pricked at his nerves.
‘I’ve come to see the king,’ the duke said. ‘Go in and announce me, or I’ll do it myself.’
‘No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that, Richard old son. And I don’t think you will either. The king calls for
As Derry spoke, York’s face grew dark with affronted rage. His men were as surprised as he was to hear a lord addressed by his common name. Both men stepped towards Derry and he squared up to them, still smiling strangely.
‘Lay a hand on me, lads, please. See what you get.’
‘Wait,’ York ordered. He could not shake the feeling that he was being trapped, that something was wrong. It was almost the sense of having eyes on him that he could not see. The two soldiers loomed over Derry, though he was as wide as either of them at the shoulder.
‘Good to see you still have a few wits knocking about,’ Derry said. ‘Now, lads, that door downstairs won’t last longer than a heartbeat. If I’m not here to stop them cutting you down, I don’t think your master’s title will hold them back, do you? Not next to the king’s rooms, it won’t.’
York swore to himself, suddenly understanding that Derry was deliberately wasting time. He strode to the oak door, determined to see the king that morning, no matter what else happened.
As he moved, something flashed past him. A cracking sound like a beam breaking made him jerk to a stop, his hand still out to take the door’s handle. York stared at the black iron bolt sticking out of the oak at head height.
‘That’s the only warning, Richard old son,’ he heard Derry say. ‘The next one goes through your neck.’
The duke spun round in time to see a ribbon of dark purple curtain flutter to the ground. In its fall, it revealed a long slit that ran around the ceiling on one side, almost for the full length of the room. Three men lay flat in the gap, so that he could see only their heads and shoulders, as well as the terrible weapons they were aiming at him. Two of the three watched him coldly as they stared down the sights of crossbows. The third shuffled back on his elbows to reload. York gaped up at the men, seeing the sunlight gleam on the polished bolt tips. He swallowed as Derry laughed.
‘I told you, Richard. The king calls or you
Below their feet, a great crash told them the outer door had given way at last. The two soldiers with the duke exchanged a worried glance, their good mood evaporating.
‘Lads,
The clatter of running soldiers grew louder and voices shouted a challenge as men poured into the room.
‘I’d lie down if I was you,’ Derry told the two soldiers.
They dropped quickly, holding their hands out empty so as not to be run through by one of the red-faced bawling men as they came in. York remained standing and folded his arms, watching with cold eyes. He knew none of the men-at-arms would dare to touch him. When his soldiers were trussed securely on the floor, they all seemed to look to Derry for new orders.
‘That’s better, Richard,’ Derry said. ‘Isn’t that better? I think it is. Now, I don’t want to be the one responsible for waking the king up this morning, if we haven’t already. How about we take this outside? Quiet as mice now, lads.’
The duke strode through the assembled guards with his face a shade of dark red. No one stopped him heading down the stairs. To Derry’s eyes at least, it was almost comical the way the guards picked up their prisoners as quietly as possible and trooped back down after him.
York did not pause at the body of his biggest soldier by the shattered outer door. His man Francis had his throat slashed open and lay in a spreading pool of blood. York stepped over him without a downward glance. The bound prisoners moaned in fear as they saw their companion, so that one of the guards reached down and cuffed the closest one hard across the face.
The sun was bright after the gloom of the inner rooms. Derry strolled out behind them all and was immediately approached by the sergeant-at-arms, a man who sported a huge white moustache and practically shook with anger. Derry accepted his salute.
‘No harm done, Hobbs. Your men deserve a pint on me tonight.’
