Blood in the Streets: Scholar Knight Book II by Paradox Books

BLOOD IN THE STREETS Scholar Knight Book II by M Harold Page

BLOOD IN THE STREETS: SCHOLAR KNIGHT BOOK II

THE MAIN PLAYERS Lancastrians KING HENRY VI, third king of the House of Lancaster. An ineffective ruler, in part because he is not reliably sane. Half a century ago, his grandfather Henry IV murdered his way to the throne. His father was Henry V, a legendary warlord who conquered France and then died young; a hard act to follow, especially because royal policy is to avoid further conflict with the French. THE DUKE OF SOMERSET, a distant cousin of the King who has no claim to the throne, but every intention of being the power behind it. His daughter is married to Lord Stafford. LORD STAFFORD, Jack Rose’s “good lord”. Lord Stafford’s father is the Duke of Buckingham, a veteran soldier and advisor to the King. Lord Stafford relies on the services of Master Piers of Thropmorton as his captain, and is married to Margaret Beaufort, the daughter of the Duke of Somerset. 1

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JACK ROSE, LORD ROSE: Minor nobleman, and overlord of Rose Valley. A former scholar, the death of his father and brother forced him to return home to reclaim his inheritance from the Haywoods. His closest companions are: Master Dietrich von Auttenburg, a German scholar; Theodora “Hopcraft”, an exiled Greek gentlewoman of mysterious origin; and Tom Bowman, his squire. Yorkists THE DUKE OF YORK. Another distant cousin of the King, with a better claim to the throne than the Duke of Somerset. Popular with the Londoners, he opposes peace with France and regards the Duke of Somerset as his enemy. EARL OF WARWICK. Most powerful member of the Neville family and “good lord” of Reynald Heywood. MASTER REYNALD HAYWOOD, ESQUIRE. Last survivor of the wealthy Haywood family, hereditary enemies of the Roses. It doesn’t help that his brother, Sir Oliver, died trying to storm Rose Castle. SIR HENRY MORTLAKE. Mercenary captain last seen in the service of Sir Oliver Haywood.

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CHAPTER ONE May AD 1455, London Jack Rose, Lord of Rose Castle, stopped, turned, and peered into the gloom. He frowned. The street’s overhanging upper storeys closed off all but a jagged sliver of grey sky. At street level, the twilight had already given way to night. A tallow lamp winked from the door of each house, but did not dispel the darkness gathering in the shadows. “What’s the matter?” asked Dietrich. “I thought we were being followed,” said Jack. Dietrich laughed and spoke in German. “This is a city. People are always coming and going.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder and switched back to accented English. “I suggest Tom lights up.” Jack nodded at the squire who fiddled with his tinderbox, got his lantern going and hoisted it up on its stick. The light seemed to drain from the street and gather around the feet of the three companions. Now they could see to keep their boots out of the worst of the filth. However, darkness reigned beyond the flickering pool of light. 3

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The street split to pass around a high-walled well. Music drifted through the damp air. “Nearly there,” said Dietrich, leading the way into the crevice between overhanging buildings. Jack patted his squire’s shoulder. “Keep going. I’ll catch up.” The squire followed Dietrich, taking the light with him. Jack stood in the ally entrance and watched the street while his eyes regained their night vision. Nobody seemed to be following them. It started to rain. Jack hurried after Dietrich and Tom. He found them looking up at a tavern pole which displayed two blackened pieces of armour. “The Tasset and Pauldron!” announced Dietrich. “The best tavern in London.” The scattering of spent raindrops reflected Tom’s lantern, making the armour look as if it had been forged from chunks of the Sphere of Fixed Stars. In the distance, the bell of St Martin’s Le Grand tolled the curfew. Jack sighed. He could be playing chess with Theodora. “It’s getting late,” he said. He glanced at Tom, who in accordance with the local laws, carried his master’s longsword slung over his back. Would the three of them be safe after dark? “Ha!” said Dietrich, stamping the dirty snow. He blew on his hands. “When did Jack Rose care about curfew? Besides, the Watch won’t bother us.” He tapped the Stafford Knot badge pinned to his doublet. Jack and his retinue were in London as part of Lord Stafford’s retinue. The King had regained his sanity at Christmas, causing the Duke of York and Earl of 4

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Warwick to flee London. Lord Stafford’s father, the Duke of Buckingham, now helped the Duke of Somerset govern England on behalf of His Majesty, or for their own benefit, depending on who you believed. “I am not worried about the Watch,” said Jack. “You really don’t think Reynald Haywood is after you?” Dietrich laughed. “Come on. Just one drink to warm up. The brewer is supposed to be Flemish.” “Just one ale,” said Jack. Tom slipped ahead and opened the door for them. A friendly fug enveloped Jack. Under a great brick vault, a massive fireplace cast a sunset-glow over a sea of tables that swam with carousing men and women. At the fireside, musicians plinked, tooted and rattled their instruments with more gusto than talent. Meanwhile tavern wenches waded through the merriment, taking coins and pouring foaming ale into raised pewter tankards. Jack’s shoulders relaxed. It was like being back in Cologne, except there were fewer flaxen haired girls. “This is more like it!” said Dietrich, raising his voice. Jack cast around for empty seats and spotted Filbert Acorn, the new vintenar of the Rose archers. The veteran archer sat in the midst of a throng of Rose billmen and longbowmen. Some had wenches on their laps, but they all listened intently to a grey-bearded stranger whose weatherbeaten face had the aspect of an old soldier with tales to tell. There was something familiar about this stranger, but the dancing light from the fire made it hard to place him. Perhaps he was an old friend of Jack’s father... Jack took a step forward and stopped himself. “Damn! My men are here.” “That didn’t bother you back in Rose,” said Dietrich. 5

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Jack gave a half shrug. “Andrew Shakeshaft insists that things are different in London.” Dietrich pointed. ”That would be the same Andrew Shakeshaft that has difficulty walking, right?” On the other side of the taproom, Andrew Shakeshaft – Jack’s bearlike Vintenar of Bills and Chief Vintenar of the Rose retinue – wove left, right, then crashed into a table. Flagons spilt. Voices raised. Men shot to their feet. “Christ’s Tears!” said Jack. He slipped between tables, dodged a serving girl, and arrived next to Andrew just as the veteran got into a shoving match with half a dozen apprentices. Jack fumbled in his purse and tossed some pennies on the table. The apprentices lost interest in brawling and fell to debating how to spend the windfall. Jack took Andrew by the shoulders and steered him to an empty table by the draughty back door. “Sit.” “You ought not be here, my lord,” slurred Andrew, slumping on the table. “But I am,” said Jack, pulling up a stool. “So like your lordship’s father,” said Andrew, starting to weep. Jack opened his mouth then closed it. What could he possibly say to this man who had taken part in battles and raids before he was born? There was a cheer from across the room. Jack glanced over. Filbert Acorn was arm-wrestling with Symond Flemming, Andrew’s second-incommand. The grey-bearded stranger appeared to be presiding over the match. The others yelled encouragement and banged their tankards on the table while their female companions giggled and looked on with bright eyes. 6

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It reminded Jack of some of the revels in the great hall of Rose Castle when the soldiers were fresh back from France, Jack’s father and brother judging rough games and giving out prizes. Jack would never quite fit in like that. Andrew started to rise. “Filbert and Symond competing. Not good.” “Sit,” said Jack. “I’m the Chief Vintenar...” began Andrew. “They look fine to me,” said Jack. He waved over a serving maid and got himself an ale. He took a gulp. “Oh. This is almost as good as the German stuff.” “Flemish brewer, my lord,” said Andrew, sitting up. “Yes,” said Jack. ”But that’s not why you’re legless, is it?” Andrew shrugged and toppled backwards off his bench. “Jesus Christ!” Jack got up and grabbed Andrew’s meaty wrist with both hands. He heaved, leaning backwards to put his weight into the task. The billman was too heavy to lift. The apprentices pointed. One of them slurred out something incomprehensible and broke into a fit of giggles. The others joined in. Tom and Dietrich made their way over to Jack. Together they hauled the muscular veteran back onto his bench then slipped away to stand at a decent distance. Andrew slumped over the table, head in hands. Between sobs, he said, “I’m a coward.” Jack stared at him. Andrew hadn’t been right since last summer’s attack on Rose Castle. The London trip was supposed to restore the old soldier’s confidence. It 7

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didn’t seem to be working. “You were brave enough,” said Jack, “when you brought back my father’s sword from the field of Castillon.” Andrew did not raise his head. ”But not when the Haywoods blew up the gatehouse.” Jack sipped his ale to give himself time to think. “I think you heard quite enough loud bangs at Castillon.” “My lord,” hissed Tom. Jack twisted on his bench. The squire cocked his head at the Rose men. Filbert and Symond were on their feet, red-faced, and exchanging hot words. Andrew planted his great hands on the table top and pushed himself off his bench. “I had better deal with this...” “No,” said Jack. “It’s more important we talk. I need a sober Chief Vintenar.” “Then not me, my lord,” said Andrew. ”I am no longer a soldier.” “The war with France is over,” said Jack. “I don’t need a soldier, just a sheep dog. There won’t be any battles.” The smack of fist on face cut through the sounds of carousing. On the other side of the tap room, Symond and Filbert traded blows while patrons dragged tables apart to make more room for the fight. Nearby drinkers gathered round to shout odds and take bets. The musicians, meanwhile packed away their instruments and slipped out of a side door. “There’s always a battle, my lord,” said Andrew. He shot to his feet, teetered, then flopped on the table upsetting Jack’s ale. 8

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“Damn!” Jack kicked back his bench and stood up. He glanced at Dietrich and Tom. ”Watch him.” Everybody was rising from their tables and converging on the fight. Jack waded through the throng towards his men. There was no sign of the grey bearded stranger. A pity, thought Jack. It would have been good to hear some of his stories. ***

Reynald Haywood, Lord of Haywood, stopped short of the smear of light cast by the tavern’s entrance lamp. He pushed into an entrance opposite and pulled the edge of his hood down to cover his face. Clem, the leader of the hirelings, followed him. The feeble lamp lent his serious face a diabolical aspect– which was fine by Reynald. The plan was to send Jack Rose straight to Hell where he belonged. Reynald hissed, “You know which one he is?” Clem didn’t bother to lower his voice. ”I got a good look at him your worship. Wiry little bugger. Black and red doublet. German hat. That do?” One of the others twirled his moustache and laughed. “Tell you what? If we get the wrong man, we won’t charge extra.” “This is about justice,” said Reynald. ”Kill the man who murdered my bother and no other.” “As you wish, your honour,” said Clem. The door opened, and the sound of a brawl reached the darkened alley. A grey bearded man stepped out. ”A good evening to you, Clem.” Clem coughed then touched his forelock. ”Sir 9

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Henry. It has been a while.” Reynald’s heart leapt into his throat. He hunched to hide his face. This was the knight his brother had hired to take Rose Castle. Sir Henry Mortlake reached out and lifted Reynald’s hood. He grinned. ”Why, it is Lord Haywood!” The old mercenary doffed his hat and gave an extravagant bow. “Such an unexpected surprise to see you in London, sir.” Clem said, “Come on lads. Let’s leave the gentlemen to their conversation.” He opened the door and led the other men into the tavern. The brawl if anything had become louder. Reynald took a half step. Perhaps he could slip around Sir Henry and follow his hirelings, but that would mean being present during the... execution. Sir Henry blocked his path. ”Such an unexpected surprise, sir,” he repeated. “I paid you, sir,” said Reynald. Sir Henry inclined his head. “You did indeed, sir. And so promptly.” Reynald scowled as he recalled the hellish ride across country, the image of his murdered brother’s headless corpse haunting him at every turn. Then arriving back at Haywood Manor only to realise that he had no soldiers left with which to defend the place. It had come as a surprise when Sir Henry had cheerfully taken the agreed money and left. “Well, sir,” said Reynald. He bowed. “God speed you, sir.” Go away! Sir Henry bowed politely. “Aren’t you going inside, sir? The ale is very fine indeed.” “No. I am taking the air for the benefit of my health,” said Reynald. 10

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“Indeed.” Sir Henry looked around this way and that. “But where is your page, sir? A lord such as yourself should have a lad to carry his sword.” “As should a belted knight,” said Reynald. “And yet, sir, I do not see your page either.” Was Sir Henry also on some kind of mission? Or was he just too poor to keep a servant? “Perhaps,” said Sir Henry, propping himself up against the wall, “I should stay to protect you, sir.” Too poor, decided Reynald. ”I do not have any further employment for you,” he said. Sir Henry laughed. “We shall see, sir.” The knight pulled up his hood and joined Reynald in the entrance. ***

Jack came up against a wall of men’s backs. He called out, “Excuse me, goodmen!” There was no response. Jack shoved through elbow first. A fat fellow backed him into the edge of a long table. Jack levered the man away, then ducked under the table and crawled on his hands and knees. The straw had not been changed recently. Some of it stuck to his hands. Jack grinned. It was hardly the kind of dignity that Andrew would approve of, but it got him closer to his men and gave him a clear moment to think. Symond Flemming, a veteran in middle years, was hard, taciturn, and - Jack swore - devoid of original thought. However, he was like Andrew Shakeshaft’s third arm, making sure things got done, keeping the Rose billmen in order whenever Andrew had to command the entire retinue. Filbert Acorn was younger, but also a survivor of the 11

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Battle of Castillon. Jack had made him the new Vintenar of Archers on the recommendation of the old one. However, if the brawl went any further than a few bruises, Jack would have to find somebody else to do the job. He could not afford a feud between the two arms of his retinue. Jack flushed. Andrew had been right that a confrontation between the two was bad. Even drunk, the ageing vintenar knew more than Jack about commanding the men, and always would. Jack reached the end of the table, pushed into the jostling legs and stood up. A fist glanced off his forehead. Reeling, Jack got his own fists up to protect his face. Everybody seemed to be punching everybody. Not just Rose archers and billmen working off their rivalry, but strangers as well, all flushed with drink and grinning as they traded blows. It was as if everybody had just got up and started fighting for the shear hell of it. Jack sized up the man in front, one of the apprentices he’d earlier paid off. He grabbed the youngster’s shoulder, hauled him round and punched him under the chin. The apprentice went down. Jack stepped over him, knocked down the next man and caught sight of his retinue. Filbert had Symond in an arm lock, but the older soldier was driving his free elbow into Filbert’s face. A serious-faced man loomed up in front of Jack. Jack stepped back a pace and banged his heels on an upturned bench. This new stranger looked sober, calculating, nothing like a brawler, and he kept his right hand by his baselard, the short belt dagger permitted by London’s laws. 12

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The serious man took a step closer. Jack reacted on instinct. He pivoted in, pinned the man’s right with his left and drove his knee into the fellow’s groin, making him double over. Jack finished with a chop to the back of the neck. His wrist bone connected with vertebra and the man rolled to the floor like a boulder. Symond and Filbert had each other in a bear hug, each trying to lift and throw the other. Jack took a deep breath and bellowed, “Stop this right now!” Everybody kept fighting. Jack raised his arms so he could cover his head if need be. What was he supposed to do? Getting between the two wrestlers would be like trying to separate warring bulls, only less safe. In a fight with blades, he might have beaten either. But only a fool rushed to wrestle. Andrew Shakeshaft burst out of the mayhem, smashed into Filbert and Symond, sent them flying. He plucked a Rose billman from the mayhem, slapped his face and turned him towards the door. Without pausing the vintenar hauled more Rose men out from the brawl and sent them on their way. A man with a drooping moustache broke a stool over Andrew’s back. The vintenar crashed into a table, upset it. Beer splashed. Andrew sprawled on the straw amongst fallen flagons. Filbert staggered a few steps, spat blood, roared and went for Symond. The brawl regained its ferocity. Jack rubbed at his bruised forehead and realised he might as well have stayed on the edge of the mayhem. Nothing could be done. 13

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From the floor, Andrew Shakeshaft bellowed, “Look out my lord!” The man with the drooping moustache drove a long military dagger at Jack’s gut. Jack caught Moustache Man’s wrist in both hands, twisted away to draw the arm across his body then let go with his left and executed an elbow strike to the chin. Moustache Man arched away to ride the blow, writhed his arm free, struck. Pain seared Jack’s chest and he knew he had been cut. He drew his pathetically short baselard and tried not to feel the damp spreading down his shirt. Moustache Man made short slashing motions with his dagger but showed no sign of attacking. On the edge of Jack’s field of vision, steel flashed in the firelight. Jack turned. He found himself ringed by five dagger men, including the serious man he had earlier downed. Behind them, the brawlers shoved and punched, merry in their mayhem, but these men’s faces displayed only a grim purpose. Professional assassins, Jack realised, and they had come for him. He turned and turned, keeping the men at bay while the blood dripped from his slashed chest. Any moment and it would all be over and he would never see Theodora again. With a bellow of “For Rose!”, Andrew Shakeshaft hurled himself at one of the assassins, took him down and fell on top of him. Jack threw himself into the gap, caught a blade on the cross of his baselard, then got his back to the great fireplace. As the heat from the fireplace soaked through his doublet, he yelled, “Rose men! Help me!” 14

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But the brawl continued. The blood from the wound on his chest reached the waist of his hose. Every instinct screamed at Jack to take a look, see how bad the damage was. Firelight glittering in his cold eyes, Moustache Man turned a table over so that it rolled into the other brawlers, forcing them back. The other dagger men came on, ignoring Andrew and their downed comrade. Tom’s voice cut through the din; “Lord Rose!” Jack looked over his shoulder. A naked sword flew towards him over the crowd like a vision of Excalibur. Not just any sword: a longsword with a tapering diamond-section blade, a simple crossguard, a grip long enough for two hands, and a round pommel. Jack’s grandfather had carried it at Agincourt. Jack snatched it out of the air and was home. As if from very far away, he heard himself whoop. The dagger men recoiled like hunting dogs before a roused boar. The serious one turned for the door. Jack sprang on Moustache Man, threw a diagonal cut at his head. Moustache Man raised his right arm over his head, heavy dagger blade flat against his forearm. The blades clashed, sparks splashed. Moustache Man surged on, dashed aside Jack’s sword, reached for his wrist. Jack raised his fists in a rowing action, swung around on his front foot. The longsword whirled around in a cone and whacked into the angle between Moustache Man’s neck and jaw. Arterial blood sprayed. Jack pivoted on the spot delivered a downright cut to Moustache Man’s head. The ancient blade clove through the skull, split his 15

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face as far as the moustache. The body toppled into the space left vacant by the musicians. Brain matter hissed on the hearthstone. The next man simply hurled his dagger and turned to flee. The others scurried after him. Jack dodged the spinning blade. Bounding forward, he thrust one handed at the man who had thrown the dagger. The tapering blade was designed to pierce stiff fabric armour, split mail rings, even puncture cheap plate armour. A ribcage posed no challenge. Three feet of steel vanished into the man’s back. He gave a gurgling scream and pitched forward. Jack put his left hand on the grip, braced and twisted. His sword squelched free. The man lay at Jack’s feet, wheezing and twitching. Blood dripped from the sword and made plopping sounds on the stone-flagged floor where scuffling boots had pushed aside the straw. The fire crackled. The tavern had fallen silent. Nobody moved. Nobody met Jack’s eye. He no longer belonged in this place. Jack kicked a small bench aside and picked his way to where Andrew Shakeshaft lay. The vintenar had taken a dagger thrust inside the collar bone and down into his lungs. His hand still clutched the baselard that he had driven up into his murderer’s chin. His face was frozen in a triumphant grin. Symond Flemming pushed through the tables and dropped to his knees beside the dead Vintenar. “Andrew survived Castillon. Now this.” His shoulders shook. 16

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Filbert Acorn coughed. “They left three of their number behind.” He met Jack’s gaze, then looked at his boots. ”Whoever hired them can hire more,” said Jack. “There will not be another Andrew Shakeshaft.” “Hired?” said Dietrich. “Hired,” repeated Jack. “They came for me and no other. There is only one man who would send them. Reynald Haywood.” He handed his sword to Tom. “Clean this. I shall have need of it again.” ***

Just as Reynald was starting to shiver, the tavern door swung open and three men stumbled out. In the bad light it took a moment to recognise Clem. Reynald smiled to himself. In a moment, he would go inside and see the body of his enemy. ”Is it done?” he asked. The noise from the tavern stopped. “We are done,” said Clem. He bore down on Reynald. ”I lost three mates and you are going to pay for them.” “I hardly think so,” said Sir Henry mildly. Clem looked at Sir Henry. His eyes narrowed. He nodded. “Come on lads. Let’s beat it.” The assassins scurried off down the ill-lit alley. “Wait!” yelled Reynald. ”Get back in there!” Sir Henry put an arm round his shoulders and steered the young lord back toward the main street. “This way, young sir.” Reynald trembled with anger. “I don’t understand! They said they could take him! Said pretty sword play didn’t count in the real world...” 17

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“Unemployed routiers,” said Sir Henry. “Not proper billmen or archers. Where did you find them?” “In a Southwark tavern, why?” asked Reynald. “I, sir, will take you to a tavern where you can find some real soldiers,” said Sir Henry. “I assume you have money?” “Yes of course,” said Reynald. “Well then, my lord,” said Sir Henry. “It seems I am in your employ after all.”

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CHAPTER TWO “Come on, goodmen,” said Jack. “We’re nearly there.” Ahead, the gateway of Monks Inn shone like a beacon, promising a well lit courtyard, order and sanity. The inn, on longterm lease from the Abbots of Sawtry, was temporary home to Lord Stafford’s retinue, and so to Jack. “It was Reynald Haywood!” said Jack in German. His friend had been silent for the entire march back from the Tasset and Pauldron. Without looking up, Dietrich said, ”I believe you. It’s happening again. More of your damned English faction fights.” Jack held the dressing harder to his chest. The slash had scored his ribs but not done any mortal damage. Jack had been pleased when politics brought his ”good lord” to London – his years in Cologne had made him something of a city dweller. Now, though, the houses seemed to close in on him like siege engines packed with enemies. ”We’ll be safe back home in Rose Castle soon enough.” “Your home, not mine,” said Dietrich. Jack chewed his lip. “I...” 19

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A small door in the gate banged open. Piers of Thropmorton, Lord Stafford’s captain, burst out of Monks Inn. He had pulled on his coat and boots, but a nightshirt trailed over bare legs as he hurried to meet Jack. Behind him came a sleepy looking servant holding up a lantern. Piers surveyed the battered Rose men and threw up his arms so his sleeves flapped. “Jack - what have you got yourself into?” Jack halted. He squared his shoulders. “There was a brawl.” “A ward constable arrived ahead of you,” said Piers. “Lord Stafford is not pleased.” Jack shrugged. He just wanted to get this over with. ”If you would excuse us, sir?” Piers stepped aside and gave Jack a florid bow. As the column passed, Piers exclaimed, “By the Sweet Saviour! Somebody was killed.” “Yes,” said Jack without looking back. “Somebody was killed.” Was it his fault? Jack led his men through the great gates, past the implacable billmen from Lord Stafford’s personal retinue, and into the big courtyard formed by the angle between the stable block and the main house. As his men drew themselves up, torch bearers filed out of the ground floor and the courtyard filled with orange-tinged light. From one of the upper rooms came the cry of an infant, young Master Harry, Lord Stafford’s son and third in line to the Duchy of Buckingham. A gallery ran down the outside of the first floor. Theodora – Madam Hopcraft as she still styled herself, even though she was obviously an exiled Greek 20

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gentlewoman of some status – stood by the rail, black gown hugging her figure, fur-trimmed hood hiding her dark hair. She met his gaze then turned and vanished back inside. Lord Stafford himself strode out into the middle of the courtyard, perfectly dressed as if he had not been just roused from his bed, his jewelled Stafford Knot hat badge glittering in the torchlight. A man in his prime with grey-streaked hair, he had the natural poise of a swordsman. Jack wondered whether their training sessions would continue after this. As Jack reached his good lord, it started to rain. He doffed his hat and dropped to one knee. The icy drops drilled his bare head, trickled down his face. “God speed you, my lord.” Lord Stafford’s gaze flickered to the dressing that Jack kept clamped to his chest but he did not motion for him to rise. “Apparently, you killed three men, sir.” “Two, my lord,” said Jack. “Andrew Shakeshaft accounted for the man who slew him.” “Another bloodbath, sir,” said Lord Stafford. “And in a London tavern.” Jack winced. Last year, Stafford had provided Jack with the legal immunity he needed to protect his property against the Haywoods. In addition to fencing lessons from Jack, the condition had been ”no bloodbath”. Unfortunately, the only way to end the resulting siege had been for Jack and his followers to carve a path to Sir Oliver Haywood, kill him, and then use Sir Oliver’s head as a flag of truce. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. “Well, sir?” said Lord Stafford. 21

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Jack took a deep breath. “There were assassins, my lord,” he said. “They came to kill me. Reynald Haywood must have–” “Amazing that they would risk attacking you when you were with your retinue,” interrupted Lord Stafford. The water began to soak into Jack’s hose, leaching away his body heat. He began to shake. It wasn’t just the cold. It was the aftermath of the fight. He needed to get into the warm, eat something, drink heavy ale. “There was a brawl, my lord,” he said. “I tried to put a stop to it...” A horrid realisation hit Jack like a punch in the gut. Had he not rushed in, then the assassins would have had to come to him. Tom would have been to hand with Jack’s sword, and Andrew would still be alive. Lord Stafford said nothing. The crying from the upper rooms stopped. Somebody was feeding his son. Jack bit his lip. Lord Stafford wasn’t interested in his guilty feelings; the evening’s misadventure was likely to cause him political embarrassment. ”Sorry, my lord. My men are country folk.” “Then I suggest you keep better control of them,” said Lord Stafford. “Otherwise you and them have no place in my retinue.” He motioned Jack to rise and then turned away. ***

Jack flopped onto his bed. His fingers were sticky. He held them up and saw they were covered in his own blood. “Sweet Jesus, somebody needs to dress that wound,” said Dietrich. Tom looked up from tending to the fire. “Shall I fetch Madam Theodora, my lord?” 22

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Jack winced. “No, she seemed somewhat out of sorts.” Wood creaked and footsteps thundered on the gallery outside. The door burst open to admit Lady Stafford. She entered the chamber with a slight twist of her broad hips, as if she expected to catch them on the door. “There he is.” Jack sat up. “My lady...” Dietrich and Tom hastily bent a knee and bowed. A cloud of maids scurried around the statuesque Lady Stafford and set up lamps, laid out fresh linen bandages, and placed a jug of wine by the bed. “No need to get up, Jack,” said Lady Stafford. “Open your garments so we can see the wound.” Flushing, feeling all eyes on him, Jack unbuttoned his doublet and pulled up his shirt. Lady Stafford tutted then raised her voice. ”Madam Hopcraft? Are you coming in?” Theodora glided into the room, her olive features expressionless. She curtsied. “Your pardon, my lady. I needed fresh air with which to brace myself.” Lady Stafford’s eyes twinkled. “We weak willed women must get our strength from whence we can, eh?” Theodora leaned over Jack. Only a flicker of her eyelashes betrayed any emotion, though he was damned if he could work out what it was. “I should have stayed back to play chess, madam,” he said. Theodora ignored him. She put out her hand. “A swab, please.” A maid placed a wad of linen into her long fingers. “Wine also.” “Yes please,” said Jack. A maid lifted the wine jug. “Not for you to drink, sir,” said Theodora. She 23

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nodded at the maid, who tipped the cold white wine onto the wound. Jack yelped. A glint entered Theodora’s eyes. She cleaned out the wound while Jack fought not to whimper and sweat broke out on his forehead. Then she stitched him up. Slowly. At length Theodora snipped the thread, straightened and brushed down her skirts. “I am done, my lady.” “Thanks!” said Jack. He reached for the wine and took a good swig. When he looked up, Theodora had left the chamber. Lady Stafford smiled at him. “Sleep well, Lord Rose.” Jack raised himself off the bed a little. “My lady, wait!” Lady Stafford arched an eyebrow. “Yes, Lord Rose?” “Madam Hopcraft... seems...” Jack floundered. “Cross?” completed Lady Stafford. “She does, does she not? Good night, Lord Rose.” The door closed. Jack closed his eyes and let the fatigue wash over him. It brought with it a vision of Andrew’s corpse. “Damn!” His father had told him never to go straight to sleep after a battle. Something about the dreams getting stuck in your head. Jack started to sit but felt his stitches strain. “Jesus! Help me!” Tom and Dietrich propped him up on pillows. “Tom, fetch some ale.” “A lot of ale,” added Dietrich, sitting on the bed next to him. He waited while the squire slipped away then said, “Jack, you can’t let this happen again.” “No I cannot,” said Jack. “If you lose Lord Stafford’s patronage,” continued Dietrich, “you lose Rose Castle. You will have nothing to offer Theodora.” 24

BLOOD IN THE STREETS: SCHOLAR KNIGHT BOOK II

“I don’t care about that!” Jack flushed. “I mean I do. But before I’m Jack Rose, I’m Lord Rose. Lord Rose is supposed to look after his people. I’m not doing very well, am I?” Dietrich said, “It was an ambush! You couldn’t have...” “God’s Teeth!” said Jack. “It’s my job not to fall for tricks. It’s my fault Andrew’s dead. Well I’m damned if it’s happening again. I’m an excellent scholar, right?” “A brilliant one,” said Dietrich. “When you apply your intellect.” “Well, now I am applying my intellect to being a lord,” said Jack. “I’m going to get my men through whatever happens next and get them all safe back to Rose.” The door slammed open making the flames in the fireplace dance. Tom marched in with a massive jug of ale and two flagons. “But first we get drunk,” said Dietrich. “Yes. First we get drunk,” said Jack.

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BLOOD IN THE STREETS: SCHOLAR KNIGHT BOOK II

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