“A name is an easy thing to bandy about,” said the man, and a chill went down Courtenay’s spine as he saw the flames from nearby torches reflected in the man’s black eyes. “And your pretty tunic and the caparisons of your horse could as easily have been stolen. Tell me your name and your business, and be quick about the telling, for this is a bad night and I am in no mood for men I do not recognize.”
“I am Sir Robert Courtenay, attached to Hal Bolingbroke’s household.”
The watchman stared unblinkingly at Courtenay, who now saw that some score of passersby, mostly well-armed men, had gathered about to listen to the exchange.
“Well, Courtenay, if that truly be your name, tell me what you do here, and why you turn your horse for the bridge?”
Courtenay hesitated, not knowing what he should tell the watchman. Was he in sympathy with the rebels, or their steadfast foe? Depending on what he said, Courtenay could either find himself killed or see Bolingbroke arrested for treason.
“I do not know what to tell you,” he said quietly, “for my loyalties lie first with my Lord of Bolingbroke, and I should not want to say anything that would place his life in danger.”
The watchman’s eyes narrowed. “First prove to me that you are Bolingbroke’s man,” he said,
“and then nothing you say to me, or to any about us,” he gestured to the crowd of men, “will be used to harm Bolingbroke.”
Courtenay reached inside the pocket of his tunic and withdrew Bolingbroke’s ring, holding it out for the watchman’s inspection.
The man leaned over the ring, as did several of the other armed men crowding about, then he
leaned back.
“Either you are Bolingbroke’s man,” he said, “or you are his murderer. I prefer to believe the former, but should it be shown to me that you are the latter you will die the next time you set foot in London.”
Courtenay’s look of relief was enough to quell the watchman’s final doubts, and the throng of men drew back a little, lowering their torches and swords.
“Where go you?” said the watchman.
“Blackheath,” said Courtenay.
A murmuring arose from the crowd.
“And for what reason?” said the watchman.
“Because Bolingbroke loves the commons of England,” said Courtenay quietly, his eyes steady on those of the watchman.
“He is in sympathy with the rebels?” the watchman said. Now the crowd was entirely silent, and that was more ominous to Courtenay than anything he’d heard in the past few minutes.
What should he say? He was the last person to whom Bolingbroke had shared his confidences in the past days and weeks, but Courtenay had observed enough of Bolingbroke to be certain that what he was about to say would be a true representation of the prince’s thoughts.
“Bolingbroke does not agree with the methods of the rebels,” Courtenay said, “nor the violence, but he is in sympathy with their needs and grievances.”
“Bolingbroke is a good man,” said a man within the crowd.
“Aye,” said another. ” ‘Tis a shame that he is not the king and could listen to our cousins’
grievances.”
“He will do what he can,” said Courtenay, “but the doing cannot be given about publicly.
There are many devoted to Bolingbroke’s downfall.”
The watchman spat. “And doubtless the perverted de Vere is chief among them. Well, Sir Robert, you have my word, as the word of those gathered about—”
There was a chorus of “ayes” and a wave of nodding.
“—that nothing you say, nor your passing, shall be shared among Bolingbroke’s enemies.”
“Then I thank you,” said Courtenay, “for I would not wish my actions or words to be the instrument of Bolingbroke’s downfall. Will you give me your name, sir, so that Bolingbroke might know of your aid for his cause?”
The watchman hesitated, then nodded. “I am Dick Whittington, mercer, and alderman of Broad Street ward.”
Courtenay raised his eyebrows. This Whittington was an important man in his own right. It was no wonder he had such an air of authority or that the crowd had deferred to his every word.
An important man … and a Bolingbroke man.
Whittington suddenly realized he still held the bridle of Courtenay’s horse, and he dropped it with a shame-faced grin. “I apologize for my questioning of you, Sir Robert.”
Courtenay shrugged. “It is a night of uncertainties, Master Whittington.”
Whittington sighed, suddenly looking tired. “Aye, it is that, and who knows what the morrow will bring? Sir Robert, London is holding its breath, not only because we fear what might happen if these rebels erupt beyond anyone’s control, but also because we wait to see how our king will handle them… and himself. He is young, and impressionable—”
“And de Vere is making far too great an impression on our king!” said a man to the side amid a chorus of ribald remarks on the exact nature of Richard and de Vere’s relationship.
“—and the next few days will be the making or breaking of him, methinks,” Whittington finished. “This is a dire event to occur to a young king so early in his reign. What he does will color the tenure of his kingship.”
Sweet Jesu! Courtenay thought. I wonder if Richard realizes that London, perhaps the entire commons of England, will judge km—and his right to hold the throne—on how he copes with this rebellion?
Whittington was watching Courtenay closely, and understood what he was thinking. “If Richard does not do well, and does not handle these rebels with sympathy,” the alderman said softly, “then there are many—a very, very many—who will believe he has no right to sit upon the throne.”
“If it were Bolingbroke holding the sceptre,” said a man, “then I doubt he would be cowering in the Tower!”
“Nay,” said Courtenay, “he would be on this horse instead of me, riding to parley with those who hold genuine grievances.
“Good men,” he continued, looking about. “That Bolingbroke is not on this horse speaks of
the danger he is in. He has many enemies who would taint him with the corrupt brush of treason… men who have laid false charges against Lord Thomas Neville that they might remove his support from Bolingbroke.”
“I’ve heard of this Neville,” said Whittington. “And you say he is not a traitor to Bolingbroke?”
“Nay,” said Courtenay, “he is only the means by which traitors mean to touch Bolingbroke.”
He would have said more save that there was a sudden rumble of movement a block further along Thames Street.
“We have no time!” Whittington said. “Quick, Courtenay, ride your horse onto the bridge. I will see that they lower the drawbridge for you.”
SOUTHWARK WAS a great deal quieter than London itself.The road that led from the bridge passed several tightly shuttered and barred inns, shops and homes, as well as the deserted palace of the Bishop of Winchester. The bishop had no doubt gathered his skirts and made good his escape many hours ago. A few people wandered the dark road, but they faded into the shadows as Courtenay galloped his stallion past.
The peace and stillness of Southwark lasted only the few minutes it took Courtenay to ride a half-mile along the eastern road toward Blackheath. Groups of men started to congregate in the fields, thickening until it seemed to Courtenay that the entire countryside was seething with people. He was stopped almost as soon as he had ridden past the first few groups, but was allowed passage (together with an escort to see him through) as soon as he produced Bolingbroke’s ring.
The crowd became almost impassable as they neared the small village of Blackheath: only the horses of Courtenay and his escort enabled them to push through.
Courtenay thought his escort would take him to one of the village houses, perhaps to a barn or one of the small warehouses bordering the river, but his escort indicated a small hill just beyond the village.
Courtenay squinted as they neared, trying to make out what was happening. There was a crowd about the hill—so immense that Courtenay could not even comprehend its numbers—
but the crest of the hill itself was clear. Several figures stood there, and Courtenay looked inquiringly to his escort.
“Tyler,” one of the men said, and with that Courtenay had to be content.
A good quarter of a mile from the hill Courtenay dismounted to shoulder his way through on foot, while his escort stayed behind with the horses. He thought he’d have trouble in the passage, but to his surprise he was met after only a few paces by a man who introduced himself as Jack Straw.
“Tyler said you’d be corning,” Straw said.
“How did he know?”
Straw shrugged. “Tyler knows many things that are dark to the rest of us,” he said, then turned back the way he’d come, leaving Courtenay to follow him as best he might.