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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: A Parliament of Spies
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Visible in the glitter of the flames a tall, handsome, athletic-looking young man strode into the middle of the foundry and looked round. Even in the wavering light, when he pushed back his hood to reveal his red-gold hair he looked every inch a king.
Hildegard had never seen him before. She turned to Rivera. ‘Is it … ?’
He nodded. ‘Striking, isn’t he? It’s called “regality”.’ He watched through narrowed lids as the King began to explore every inch of the foundry, turning his attention with particular acuteness to an examination of the finished weapons.
Now that the roar of the furnace was shut down his voice reached clearly to the balcony. ‘Petrus, are you sure they can’t show me how they work?’
One of the courtiers brought the foundry master forward. He pulled off his sweatband in place of a cap and bowed. ‘Best off in the open, My Lord King. Such is their firepower. And more space, should an accident occur.’
‘When can you show me?’
Brembre stepped forward. ‘In time, My Lord.’
‘We have no time. When the French arrive our enemies will swarm in like rats. Nothing can stop them. My people have been told I’m going to abandon them. I must show them otherwise.’
The captain was heard to explain in a mixture of English and his own language the difficulty of controlling the aiming of the weapon and Hildegard caught the word ‘ribauldequin’. She exchanged a glance with Rivera.
The King was able to discuss the matter in the ironmaster’s own language and Brembre stood by, unable to follow more than a few words, while the King went over and hefted one of the firing tubes onto his shoulder and peered inside the hollow. The royal retinue, wearing plain cloaks with hoods concealing their faces as if in
disguise, now began to fling them back in the heat and explore for themselves. Hildegard gripped the edge of the balcony when she saw Medford and Dean Slake in the group. The King, however, had turned to a young man by his side.
‘What do you think, Robert?’
‘That’s de Vere, the new Marquess of Dublin whom Gloucester hates so much,’ murmured Rivera.
De Vere put down the iron casing he was examining. ‘I think this is the most significant advance in the art of war ever made. It will end the use of horsemen and sadly make a nonsense of our greatest strength, the longbow.’
‘I agree. The black art of war has turned a shade darker. And it’s our decision whether we take advantage of it or not.’ The King patted Brembre on the shoulder. ‘You kept the secret well, Nicholas. Even Mr Medford here did not know what was going on, did you, Medford?’
‘I am remiss in my duty, Your Grace.’
‘No, the mayor here was following my instructions to the letter. I still wear the Signet.’ He lifted his hand and a ring caught the light and shone like fire.
He beckoned to the foundry master. ‘I want this place cleared by morning. The weapons must be taken upriver to Windsor Castle. My men will be ready to receive you.’
There was no discussion about whether this would be possible in so short a time. The Bohemian did not question the order either but set to at once barking out instructions to his men who got onto the task with alacrity.
The King turned to leave saying, ‘Medford, make sure these men are well rewarded.’
In moments the whole retinue had swept from sight.
Rivera’s face was like a mask.
Below, in the guttering light, the job of putting out the furnace was started, while others gathered up the implements of their trade, and the metal tubes, the so-called ribauldequins, were rolled in sacks. A man was sent to organise transportation.
Then, as Hildegard and Rivera stood on the balcony, something happened that took them both by surprise. The door through which they had entered suddenly opened. There was a shout. Hildegard saw the gleam of weapons in the half-light. A man with a pike materialised and began to walk towards them.
Without speaking Rivera pushed Hildegard behind him. She saw the knife in his hand as he stepped forward to meet them.
She caught at his sleeve. ‘No, Rivera, don’t!’
The pikeman came on, backed up by half a dozen more. Grinning in triumph he beckoned to Rivera with one hand, ‘Come on, Brother. Let’s have you. You’re not going nowhere now. Might as well save your skin and come quietly.’
‘He’s right,’ said Hildegard. ‘Don’t fight them. There are too many.’
Rivera seemed to agree. He pitched his knife over the edge of the balcony and spread his arms by his sides as if in surrender.
The pikeman went back to the door to allow them to follow him along the narrow walkway. When the man was bending his head to duck under the lintel Rivera suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him headlong down the stairs, scattering like skittles the rest of the detail standing lower down. In the confusion Rivera
managed to grab Hildegard by the arm and drag her with him. They managed to get halfway down the stairs, half falling, pitching headlong, leaping three steps at a time in a welter of arms and legs until a second group of pikemen materialised at the bottom.
They wasted no time in talking but simply stormed up, grabbed Rivera by both arms and hauled him bodily down to ground level. He fell to his knees and they kicked him in the ribs with their metal boots until Hildegard came tumbling down after him and then they made a grab for her too until an authoritative voice called out, ‘I said let the woman go.’
It was Medford.
Rivera was dragged along the passage, blood pouring from his mouth.
‘Rivera!’ Hildegard gave a scream that echoed to the height of the tower. Before it died away he was in chains and being hauled roughly out of sight.
She turned on Medford in a fury. ‘You promised him no harm!’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘You said—’
‘Yes?’
He was right. He had made no promise but he had allowed her to believe he had.
‘Affairs of state, Domina,’ he said coolly. ‘We must keep clear heads. The King’s life is at stake. And we are still no nearer to discovering the nature of the plot against him, nor what form it might take. Rivera will tell us what he can if he knows what’s good for him.’
 
 
Hildegard was allowed to leave. All she saw in her mind’s eye as she trudged across the green towards the White Tower was Rivera’s bloodied face and his dark eyes turned towards her in disbelief. They said as clearly as words:
You have betrayed me.
As the bridge warden had told her, the prisoner she and Thomas had been visiting had been moved. When she eventually found him in a cell at the end of a dreary passage he was lying in a wooden chair, limbs lolling helplessly, his pupils dilated with pain.
‘I shall rest here until I’m fit again,’ he muttered hoarsely when he recognised his visitor. ‘Remember your promise to my wife?’
Hildegard took his broken fingers in one hand as gently as she could. They were swollen to double their size, blue-black with bruises, his nails ripped out. ‘You must let her know what has happened. She’ll care for you.’
‘I fear she will not when she sees I’m no longer any use to her.’ He closed his eyes in defeat.
Hildegard did what she could to mend him. She applied salves and tinctures to his broken sinews and she paid his guard to follow her instructions on how to treat him after she left. Then she leant over and whispered, ‘Did you have anything to tell Rivera?’
The prisoner lifted his head, sweat standing on his brow with the effort, and was about to speak when the guard called out, ‘No more time, Domina! Quick! Out of here! The guards!’
The tramp of heavy boots could be heard in the passage as another watch came on duty.
 
 
As soon as Hildegard stepped outside onto the green she noticed something different. It was the uncanny silence. The wind had dropped. It was just as Rivera had told her. When the wind dropped, the last barrier to the invasion would fall.
Outtside the great walls of the Tower the city was in uproar. An atmosphere of panic had taken hold. A fever of fear and excitement was bringing people out into the streets. Groups of men were going from door to door selling cudgels that somebody had had the foresight to stockpile over the preceding weeks. The sound of swords being belatedly sharpened filled the air as every rusty blade was dragged out.
‘Arm yourselves!’ went the cry. ‘The French are coming! Protect your families!’
The street traders were out in force, selling anything that might conceivably be needed for a siege: food, ale, weapons. It looked as if every household had come outside to stand in the open under the stars.
‘Better out than being trapped in our houses like rats,’ she heard somebody say as she passed. As well as fear and an air of panic, a feeling of relief – the day of doom was here – brought a mood of festival, as if force of numbers and their own strong will would be enough to outface King Charles and his terrifying army.
Out on the river small craft were being loaded with kindling, ready to be turned into fireships when the enemy fleet hove into view. The city walls glinted with cohorts of armed men. Every tower had its longbowmen. Fires burnt at the end of every street. There was a smell of naptha on the air.
Hildegard, her mind filled with dread about what would happen to Rivera now Medford had him in his clutches, allowed herself to be carried along by the crowd. Soon she found herself on Cheap and found they were making for the Guildhall.
After his meeting with the King, Brembre was back among his people. As she arrived in the square outside he was standing on the steps coming to the end of an oration. Part electioneering speech, part rallying cry, he was summoning every last man and able-bodied woman and child to the defence of the city.
‘London will never surrender! Let them burn us, let them send their trebuchets to batter our walls, let their armed knights strut and stamp. We will never give in!’ His words brought roars of support from the crowd. Many of them must have felt it was hopeless. Some were in tears. But their defiance was solid.
‘On this night of nights we are tested,’ Brembre declaimed. ‘And, dear friends, we shall not fail. Victory! The King wills it!’
‘Engelond! Engelond!’ they roared back.
Some, who in previous years had caused the streets of the city to run with blood, now openly sang the forbidden rebel anthem of the Brotherhood of the White Hart. Defiant, fated, their idealism brought tears to Hildegard’s eyes and she learnt again that there was nothing more certain to break the heart than a lost cause.
The mob, however, forgetting the past, were ebullient, ready to cheer to the skies anybody who appeared on the steps to shout defiance at the approaching enemy. Aldermen, maybe courting votes, added their own voices
to Brembre’s. London would not fall. They vowed it to God and all the saints. They vowed it especially to St George. And they vowed it on their own lives to the King. ‘Dickon! Dickon!’ they shouted. ‘Save the King!’ Nothing could defeat him. Nothing could defeat them. Prayers were offered. The
Te Deum
was sung. Penitents screamed and thrashed themselves. The doomsayers predicted only partial defeat. The alehouses filled with defiant drunks. Others knelt quietly before the shrines with lighted candles in their hands. The churches threw open their doors to allow the blessing of incense into the streets.
Hildegard returned eventually through these scenes of resistance to the stoical calm of York Place. Fortunately she found that her things, few as they were, had already been sent along and a chamber made ready for her. It was past midnight. Here the gates were barred, the guards on full alert, and she had only been allowed to enter the deserted precinct by the night gate after she had been thoroughly scrutinised by the porter on the other side.
She sat at the window, fully clothed and with her knife by her side, watching for the French ships and seeing in her mind’s eye Rivera, chained, inside the Tower.
H
e was allowed out to take some air as soon as it was daylight.
‘If you want to escape, Brother, you’re welcome to jump.’
Rivera gazed down from the top of the tower and gave a wry smile.
His guard was smirking. ‘I understand you folk believe in miracles. As do many now!’ He chuckled. ‘Maybe an angel will swoop out of heaven and take you in her arms?’
Rivera, glance fixed on the sky, said, ‘I fear there are no angels, not even in heaven.’
He could see the Thames clearly from up here and noticed that the tide was on the turn. It was suspended in perfect equilibrium like a spinning coin, impossible to predict its new direction.
Effluent from the night-soil boats swirled behind the markers until, it seemed, the coin fell, the tide began to pour more strongly in one direction, and the human detritus was coaxed with its scavenging rats downriver towards the sea.

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