Malory's Quest

By Helen Lewis

March 1471, Rogue Malory is dead. His friends, the Newgate Three, set out to fulfil their promise to him to deliver the finished manuscript of Le Morte D’Arthur to the friars of Winchester. But national events intrude and the three find themselves cast out from England. Advised by their old friend, Sir Anthony Tanner, and his betrothed, Margaret Limpsett, they set out to Bruges in Flanders where they seek advice on how to proceed to protect the manuscript. New characters are introduced, including William Caxton who becomes integral to their lives. Previous friends – and enemies – reappear and play their parts. But not all is well. At the end, there is a shocking discovery. Will the quest be fulfilled?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528999564

Helen Lewis

Originally from the New Forest Helen has lived with her family in Pembrokeshire for 11 years. She trained as a graphic designer at The Faculty of Art, Southampton and worked in studios in London before setting up her own consultancy. Helen has been writing for ten years and has had short stories published in anthologies and national magazines. This is her debut novel.

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About the Author

Helen Lewis began writing novels after retirement from teaching. She has previously published two novels of a trilogy set in Victorian England, but her focus has always been the fifteenth century. The first book in the Rogue Malory trilogy came out last year. She has a PhD from Birmingham University; her thesis was on Warwick the Kingmaker in Shakespeare’s Henry VI. Later, she wrote a quartet of novels on Warwick’s life – Lodestar – and it was during research for them she came across Sir Thomas Malory.

Dedication

Dedicated to Daphne for her enthusiasm.

Copyright Information ©

Helen Lewis 2022

The right of Helen Lewis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528999557 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528999564 (ePub e-book)

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Prologue

April 1471: In which we are brought up to date with some important events that will impact on what is to come.

‘Of course, this changes everything again, sir.’

Tony Tanner looked up at the disgruntled face of the soldier, withdrew his dagger from the neck of a now very dead archer and wiped the blade on the sleeve of his jerkin. Straightening up he frowned. ‘What the fuck are you talking about soldier? How does it change everything?’

‘With Lord Warwick and his brother Lord Montague being dead.’

‘What? They’re not dead – we were winning when I last looked. You’re not spreading lies and despair, are you? A tactic well-used by the enemy.’

‘Certainly not sir. But what I tell you is true. The Earl of Warwick is as dead as – as a –; well he’s certainly no more. I’ve just seen him surrounded by Edward’s men. They stripped him of everything – clothes and all – on the orders of the king. His body’s to be taken back to London with Lord Montague’s. The battle’s over – we lost!’

The two men were standing in the fog of an Easter Sunday morning in a muddy field in Hertfordshire. It was not yet seven o’clock, but a battle had been raging since dawn. The forces of Richard Neville Earl of Warwick were ranged against those of King Edward IV, a man now very anxious to rid himself of this troublesome subject who had ideas well above his station. It seemed that Lord Warwick’s last desperate attempt to hang on to power had failed, and his position as virtual ruler through a very weak king, Henry VI, was over. Edward was once again secure on his throne and all those who supported Warwick were now in an awkward situation.

Evidently appreciating this indisputable fact, the man-at-arms continued. ‘What’s going to happen to us now sir?’ Any common soldier’s first consideration, especially one on the losing side, would rightly be for his own safety.

‘Well, to put no finer point on it, if what you say is true and not an ugly rumour put about by spies and traitors, then we’re in the shit and must shift for ourselves immediately. It certainly won’t be safe for any of us to stay around here for long.’

‘Run away with the rest you mean?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that; more an honourable withdrawal.’

‘I don’t know what that means sir, but most of my crew have already disbanded and disappeared.’

‘Who were you with, soldier?’

‘The Earl of Oxford, sir.’ He pointed to a rough cloth badge sewn on his sleeve; it

showed the mullet of the de Vere’s – a five-pointed star.

‘Well, if you have any sense you’ll get rid of that immediately. Where do you come from?’

‘Morpeth, sir.’

‘Morpeth in Northumberland? So that’s why it’s hard to understand you! A God-forsaken place. You’re a long way from home. How have you ended up here?’

‘It’s a long story sir. You see –’

‘– I shouldn’t have asked. Look, now’s not the time for us to exchange personal histories. If you want my advice, get back to Morpeth as soon as you can.’

‘Where exactly are we sir?’ asked the soldier with a frown.

‘Barnet.’

The man continued to look mystified. ‘Where’s Barnet? How far is it from Morpeth? Is it near Newcastle, sir? How – where – should I go?’

‘We’re a long way from Newcastle, soldier. Look, my advice is that you take a wide detour of the town and then turn north and keep going. Stop when you get close to Newcastle and can only see moorland – you’ll know where you are by then and you’ll be able to understand what they’re saying, so you can ask. On foot it should take you a few weeks. If you can purloin a horse, about ten days; it’s almost three hundred miles from here.’

‘Christ! Is it that far?’ The man looked crestfallen.

‘I’m afraid it is!’

The soldier frowned. ‘So, is it all up sir? King Edward will keep his throne and we’ll have peace at last?’

‘Seems like it, soldier. Of course, there’s always Queen Margaret. Fuck knows where she is. If she’d been here with her troops things might’ve been different. Still, we can’t waste time thinking of what might have been. We are where we are – in the shit as I said.’ He held out his hand to the man-at-arms who still stood hesitating as to what he should do or where he should go. ‘Good luck, soldier! As I said, just keep going north! We’ll probably never meet again – unless on the battlefield.’

‘I think I’m giving up soldiering, sir. I’ll go back to my sheep. It’s safer!’

‘You’re not wrong there! But unfortunately, some of us are not familiar with animal husbandry – only soldiering – nothing else!’

*****

It was true; he did know nothing else. Sir Anthony Tanner, twenty-four, knighted for diligent service by the Earl of Warwick himself, had been soldiering all his life. His mother, living in the trollops’ wagons which trailed behind any army and carried those essential to its domestic maintenance – women to wash clothes, collect fuel, de-louse the men, provide sexual favours, as well as pimps and opportunist traders – had been such a camp follower. Tony Tanner was the result of a casual encounter she had enjoyed behind a barn in Leicestershire back in the year ’46 with a well-favoured cross-bowman. As a boy, Tony had been raised by rough women among rougher men and was none the worse for it. His main asset, besides a natural recklessness with his own safety and other people’s, was exceptional good looks inherited from his father – the envy of his brothers-in-arms and a joy for any red-blooded woman to behold. His dark hair, long eyelashes over corn-flower blue eyes, firm buttocks and a good leg, gave him the edge over his companions where women were concerned. There was also something of the pirate about him. He had loved and left distraught many a female – of all ages, marital status and degrees of beauty.

He was disinclined to marry and settle to a quiet life; rather he thrived on the excitement of the underhand and secret. Actual fighting took up only a small proportion of his time, for first and foremost he was – had been – a spy for Lord Warwick; his missions generally concerned with the covert passing of messages and documents. Plots, conspiracies and dark places were meat and drink to him. He had travelled to every quarter of England, Wales, Ireland, France and Burgundy on the earl’s business and was well-regarded by that man, as well as those in Warwick’s senior circle. Whenever there was a sensitive task to be done, Six-toed Tanner was the first they would call upon. The soubriquet was well-attributed. At the age of eighteen, Tony had suffered severe frost-bite to four of his toes while on campaign in Northumberland. It was said, and he never denied it, that he had bitten them off when he could see they were of no further use. Whether true or not, it left him with an enhanced reputation as daring – and a very slight but interesting limp.

Now it seemed his spying days were over, at least for a while until he could ascertain the true nature of events. One thing was certain, he should take the same advice he had given the soldier and divest himself of any links to the Earl of Warwick. Off came the armband with the insignia of the bear and ragged staff, as did the silver ring showing the same motif.

I’m not being disloyal, just taking sensible precautions, he told himself, as he tucked the ring away into an inside pocket of his saddlebag. He looked down at the young face of the archer whose body lay stretched out on the muddy pasture. Poor bastard! The boy, for he was no more than that, had pleaded with him to put him out of his misery. An arm slashed off in one clean sweep had been pouring blood when Tony almost stumbled over the body. With nothing to be done for him, his wounds or his arm, he took his dagger and skilfully plunged it into the neck, killing him instantly and then closing the boy’s eyes with their terrified look.

He tried to remember how many times he’d done this before. It seems to me the aftermath of battle is messier than the actual engagement, he thought. Half-dead men left writhing in agony until their cries are answered and they are given short despatch and a long peace. There’s nothing glorious about battles!

He frowned, then spoke aloud as though collecting his thoughts, ‘Now Tony, what to do? We have no leaders – the soldier seemed certain that Warwick and his brother Montague are dead; Oxford has bolted somewhere – typical of the man. It can only be London for me – and fast. Given the situation I must ride and warn Sir Tom and my friends that things have changed. They are no longer in favour but will now be considered the king’s enemies – guilty of treacherous plots against him and likely to lose their heads if they’re caught. Sir Thomas Malory has few friends and many enemies, being such a fucking obstinate old reprobate; but for old times’ sake I should warn him and the others. So it must be London and Newgate.’ He stopped and smiled to himself. ‘If time and circumstances allow, maybe I’ll cross the river and test the delights of the Southwark Stews again. I deserve a little rest and replenishment. There’ll surely be time for that!’

Chapter 1

We catch up with old friends, and enemies;

Tony Tanner takes his detour and makes a

reckless suggestion to Meg Limpett.

‘Have you got the manuscript, Monty?’ John Appleby looked at his friend severely through narrowed eyes. ‘Our whole purpose is centred on it!’

‘Of course I have – safely in my saddlebag, although it weighs a ton and I have to be careful to balance it on the opposite side. You’d be surprised how heavy eight hundred pages of paper are, Pom!’

‘You don’t have to tell me anything about the weight of paper, Monty Pickle,’ said their companion Jack Worms, gloomily. ‘Years of shifting reams of the stuff from the warehouse to my shop have given me muscles I couldn’t expose for fear of embarrassing you!’

‘Enough idle chatting. As Sir Tom would say: Let’s fuck off and commence our task!’

‘I hope you haven’t taken over the role of chief imprecator from Sir Tom, Pom?’ Monty looked primly at his friend. ‘It’s the one thing I don’t miss about him – his fruity language.’

‘I always felt he used it enough for all of us. But if the odd one slips out you’ll have to grin and bear it, Monty – just as you did when he was alive.’

The three friends stopped for a moment and were silent as memories of their late friend came rushing back. Sir Thomas Malory, Knight of the Shire, writer, soldier, conspirator, thief, adulterer, fornicator, had been dead of the flux for over three weeks. Buried in the churchyard of Christ Church, he rested a few yards opposite his last domicile – Newgate Jail, where he had spent two years in unusual comfort working on his magnum opus, Le Morte D’Arthur. His status as a prisoner was a doubtful one since, although incarcerated for two years, he had not been charged with any specific crime, just held until he could appear in court. Surprisingly, he had no quarrel with this arrangement, rather the opposite. Money was exchanged between his purse and that of Master Roger Clyfford’s, Keeper of Newgate, to ensure Malory was as comfortable as a small room at the top of the prison tower would allow: sea coal, candles, good food and, above all, large quantities of excellent wine shipped in from Calais courtesy of his friend Baron Wenlock, ensured the old knight’s contentment and his happy acceptance of the status of privileged prisoner. Even when lately granted a king’s pardon, with its order for release, he had obstinately refused to leave. Most of Sir Tom’s sojourn in Newgate was taken up with the book, but he had also embroiled himself in Westminster politics – always on the side of Lord Warwick. The times had been volatile, and Malory had added to the incendiary atmosphere which surrounded the court, through covert mischievous actions in which he took great delight. Complex affinities, and loyalties which wafted about like feathers in the wind, had been in play in the country for twenty years. Claims and counter-claims as to who should place their arse on the throne of England had left a legacy of bloodshed, ill-feeling and brooding resentment by so-called nobility who should have known better.

Sir Tom’s last will and testament had stipulated that the precious manuscript, in which he had been engrossed on and off for fifteen years, should be taken to the monks of Winchester Priory and placed there for copying as was required. He had laid the responsibility for this task firmly on the shoulders of his three boon companions: his servant John Pom Appleby, his scribe Mister Montmorency Pickle and his stationer Master Jack Worms. Through the terms of the will the Newgate Three were provided with the financial wherewithal to complete the task and there was no question they would follow it through.

It was April 13 in the year ‘71, the day before Easter Sunday and the momentous events, of which we’ve already heard, which would take place in Hertfordshire. The three men in question were standing in the stable-yard of Greyfriars’, the London lodgings of the Earl of Warwick and close to Pom’s own dwelling. He occupied two rooms which had once been stables, but were converted to a small, comfortable billet for which he paid an equally satisfyingly small rent. Now, in the mists of an early spring morning the men each held the reins of horses, chosen especially by friendly stable-hands in consideration of their customers’ mounted skills. Jack and Monty had readily admitted these were poor; Pom had not ridden for some years, but, as he told the lads, I’ve been an accomplished rider – a soldier in the dim and distant past. City dwellers, there was no necessity for them to own or hire horses. Their itineraries around London could all be accomplished on foot or in wherries – those handy small craft which ferried travellers up, down and across the filthy Thames for sixpence or more. Consequently, two of the three were looking apprehensive, not only in consideration of a journey of some one hundred miles along dangerous tracks, but also because of the unknown predispositions of their means of transport.

‘When was the last time you were on a horse, Pom?’ Monty asked the small, short-legged man, with a rotund trunk topped with a swarthy and time-worn face. The most engaging feature of Pom’s physiognomy was its enormous beard – now greying and straggling, but a fine effort for all that as it hung from his chin past his neck and in line with his shoulders.

‘The last time I was in Warwickshire with Sir Tom; that must be seven years ago at least. Of course, we were fine riders then and it’s a skill once mastered never forgotten. I feel sure once I’m up and away it’ll come back.’

‘I wish I could say the same!’ said Jack grimacing. ‘I rode as a boy but, like you Monty, I had no need to refine my horsemanship. I’ve never owned a beast in my life – too expensive for something which would hardly be used.’ He hesitated, as though he had admitted to something weak and unmanly. ‘That’s not to say I can’t ride – just haven’t had the practice.’

‘Well,’ Monty observed ruefully, ‘the last time I was on a horse was when I rode to Salisbury for my father’s funeral – about twelve years ago; I fell off and badly bruised my arse. It did nothing to make me fond of these animals.’ He looked witheringly at the grey mare whose reins he was holding. She looked back down her nose at him with equal contempt. These exchanges did not bode well for the future which would require a mutually cooperative relationship.

‘We can only do our best then!’ said Pom cheerfully, putting his foot in the stirrup and heaving himself with a grunt and in an ungainly fashion onto the back of a bay gelding with a white blaze and three white socks. Both Monty and Jack thought this a statement of the obvious but said nothing – too concerned with ensuring their feet were firmly in the stirrups. Two friendly and curious stable-lads helped push them onto the backs of their mounts and checked the girths of the saddles were tight.

‘Don’t want you turning upside down before you start, sir!’ said one with a cheerful grin, clearly enjoying the discomfort of these two gentlemen and mystified as to how, in this day and age, neither had mastered the necessity of horse-riding.

‘I suggest you gentlemen trot around the yard a few times,’ said the elder boy, ‘and get the feel of these beasts. We picked them because they’re fairly docile –’

‘– What do you mean, fairly?’ asked Jack, anxiety evident in his voice.

‘All horses are different sir – just like people. They have bad days and good days. You never can tell.’

Jesus Christ! thought Monty, we’re setting off on a foolhardy journey on the back of unreliable transport. Anything could happen! For a moment, he considered making excuses and abandoning the whole project. But then he thought of Sir Tom, the time they had spent together on Le Morte D’Arthur, the promise he had made to him, and the oath he had subsequently sworn to himself that he would do his utmost to deliver the book to Winchester. After all, as the man’s scribe, he had played a large part in its final production. He must see it through to copying and dissemination to those who would appreciate it. He straightened his back, looked between the mare’s ears, pressed her flanks gently with his heels and prepared to move off. Nothing happened.

‘You’ll have to kick her into action, sir; not tickle her! She won’t move unless you show her you mean business.’ The boy slapped the horse on the rump causing her to move forward rapidly and Monty to reach out for the mane in panic. ‘No need for the mane sir! Sit upright and keep the reins tight but don’t pull on her mouth, then squeeze with your thighs, kick with your heels and get her into action. You’ll soon get the hang of it. I picked her because you asked for an ambler – she’s a good ambler and will see you right if you treat her right.’

I don’t believe you! thought Monty but did not say it. However, he finally achieved momentum and was soon following the others around the stable-yard, walking at a gentle pace and learning how to feel the rhythm of the horse beneath him. Pom had evidently remembered all his skills and was sitting confident and upright as though his last ride had been only yesterday. Jack, looking apprehensive, was doing his best to manoeuvre his beast around the yard with some dignity. After thirty minutes, the stable-hands suggested they should be able to handle the horses without their supervision. ‘As you’re heading out of the city, you’ll have to negotiate the narrow streets inside the walls first. You can only take the horses at a walking pace and that will enable you to get the feel of them.’ He was the senior lad – an intelligent boy of sixteen summers – who had been delegated to oversee this operation and had been paid handsomely by Pom in advance. A deposit had also been paid in the event of death or injury to any of the animals. The lad felt he could do no more and signalled to his companions to withdraw and leave the gentlemen to it.

‘Do we know exactly where we’re going Pom?’ asked Jack.

‘As I told you, we’re heading out on the old route of the pilgrims to Winchester,’ said Pom somewhat testily, as he struggled to keep his horse from heading to a hawthorn bush flushed with tempting young leaves.

‘Yes, but what is our route exactly? You must know, Monty. You say you’ve travelled it before.’

‘Yes, but many years ago – although I don’t expect it’s changed much. I seem to remember it as a wide track, well-trodden over the ages by those who walk and ride from Winchester to Canterbury to worship at Becket’s Shrine.’

‘It’s a straight road – no turnings or crossroads to consider. We just go from A to B,’ explained Pom.

‘L to W, you mean!’ said Monty with a laugh. They had walked the horses out of Greyfriars’ and were wandering the narrow lanes around Ludgate Hill making their way west. ‘Are you sure you have the route in your head Pom?’ asked Jack, nervously guiding his horse through the customary shit and rubbish strewn across the London alleyways.

‘According to Lord Wenlock, who recommended the route to Sir Tom when that good old man was asked his advice, we head west until we reach way beyond the city limits, then turn south to Kingston-on-Thames where we cross the river. It’s then due south through Leatherhead, where we’ll come directly onto the Downs Way which runs west to east. Simple!’

It all sounds rather vague, thought Jack but did not say so. Instead, he began to wonder whether he had packed enough warm clothing. He had no idea where they would be spending the nights – although he had already stated very firmly that he was not prepared to sleep under the stars. ‘I accept our lodging might be rough, but a flea-ridden bed will be preferable to sleeping between tree roots!’ Fortunately, they had all agreed; neither Pom nor Monty were in the flush of youth and were of one mind that they should spend their nights under cover; at the age of twenty-eight, Jack had slept in a proper bed all his life. They had enough cash between them to pay for cheap lodgings – and they had agreed for economy and safety they would share a room. The matter of their personal protection had come up innumerable times in their planning.

‘Roads are dangerous places,’ said Pom with his most serious expression. ‘We must obviously go armed!’

Jack and Monty exchanged glances. ‘I have nothing but my knife and a very rusty sword of my father’s. I’ve never waved it in anger. In fact, I confess I’ve never been involved in a fight,’ admitted Monty, rather shame-faced at the thought.

Pom shook his head. ‘Well, you’re lucky then. Walking the London streets as you do, I’m surprised you’ve never been accosted by caitiffs.’

‘I’ve managed to avoid them by walking fast and using crowded streets rather than dark alley-ways.’

‘What about you, Jack. Have you done any military training?’

‘The only dangerous weapons I’ve encountered are my vices in the shop, which can give a nasty pinch if approached carelessly. I do have my father’s old cudgel which I tuck down my hose whenever I leave the shop.’ Pom chuckled to himself and thought what a joke Sir Tom would have made of that image, but he said nothing. ‘As for swordsmanship,’ continued the stationer, ‘I have a sword; like Monty, I inherited it from my father, but he never showed me how to use it.’

‘Fuck me!’ declared Pom. ‘We’ll be prey to every cut-throat on the road. Can either of you use your fists?’

‘I’m sure if we were attacked we would come to each other’s aid. The thing is not to be separated, but stay together,’ said Jack robustly.

Pom blew out his cheeks and sighed. ‘We’ll have to hope for the best,’ he said, trying to muster some insouciance. ‘It’s fortunate we should only be on the road for four or five days, depending on the weather and our pace. Who knows, we may get these nags up to a gallop on the broad track of the Downs. I’m told its surface is very kind to horses’ hooves.’

‘Will there be plenty of farriers along the way – should we cast a shoe that is?’ asked Monty.

‘I thought you said you’d ridden this route before, my friend. Yes, there’ll be plenty of everything – food, equipment, relics, shrines,’ pronounced Pom. ‘It’s a busy route with plenty of business opportunities for those with their wits about them. Plenty of beggars and villains too – so we’ll have to be on our guard for thieves and cut-throats.’

Monty raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought it would only be pilgrims we would come across. Anyway, it was many years ago that I rode the Downs Way. I wasn’t taking much in as I had other things on my mind; I’d just had a death in my family.’

Pom looked very seriously at Monty. ‘Well, you must keep your wits about you now. We all know where there are travellers there are always thieves after their money and goods – like flies around shit. That manuscript you’re carrying is precious, the only copy in existence. It’s Sir Tom’s legacy to the world and if it’s lost it can’t ever be replaced.’

‘Well, I may be carrying it, but we were all instructed to see it placed in safe keeping with the monks in Winchester. Perhaps you would like to take charge of it, Pom?’ Monty felt slighted. Not only had he admitted he would be no use in a fight, but it now seemed Pom had little faith in his ability to guard the precious papers. Sensing the atmosphere had turned slightly sour, attempting to ameliorate it Pom said cheerfully, ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else who should guard these documents. After all Monty, it was chiefly you that enabled Sir Tom to finish the thing. I think, if you hadn’t come along he would still be chewing the end of his quill and swallowing bits of feather!’

Somewhat mollified, Monty smiled weakly and nudged his horse from less of an amble to a slightly faster walk. The three men fell silent, each contemplating the next part of the journey, beyond the city wall and out into the countryside – a place possibly hostile, possibly welcoming. They had no idea which they might encounter.

*****

As a Newgate prison guard, Gregory Hapgood had a good idea what he might encounter – nothing very much. When he had first come on duty, for a short time Fat Greg had stood as erect and stiff as an extremely fat man can and endeavoured to look menacing – at least as he thought a guard in an important prison should. However, as the first half-hour went by he began to wilt with tiredness and boredom. His arms aching as much as his feet, he had finally propped his halberd up against the grey stone wall and then propped his body alongside it. He was a man of slow wits, but with a gentle nature and as he slumped against the stonework he wondered in his limited way how things had come to this. Three weeks ago he had been a good and faithful servant to Sir Thomas Malory; fetching and carrying from ground level to the top tower room where his master held court to many an exciting visitor – at least they seemed remarkable to Greg. Sir Tom had been generous with his food and wine and it was possibly this that Gregory missed most – besides the convivial air which imbued the room when guests arrived, and Wenlock’s Best was circulating. He had enjoyed the role for those few weeks, but then his master had died. Gregory had been first on the scene because he kept a loyal and permanent vigil outside the room and, after Sir Tom had breathed his last, the faithful servant had entered and found the knight’s body propped up on pillows – the spirit of life drained from the face.

With what might be considered indecent haste, on the day after Malory’s death Keeper Roger Clyfford, had insisted Greg return to his normal duties as a prison guard. There would be no more idling on the stairs – running up and down at the whim of Sir Tom who, to Clyfford’s unspoken annoyance, had occupied the room fraudulently for the last few months. These thoughts were hypocritical for the keeper received from Sir Tom generous remuneration for the privilege; monies which Clyfford pocketed quietly and never appeared in the prison accounts. In truth Master Clyfford had been quite fond of the old rogue. They had shared some moments of humour and even a few drinking bouts together; but Malory’s appropriation of one of his guards had been a step too far and, once the old man was dead, he felt justified in redressing the situation. Consequently Gregory was back at his post at the bottom of the tower stairs, ostensibly ready to repel intruders, but instead dozing in the gloom. Unfortunately, at the same time as Greg’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head when deep sleep overtook him, his mouth falling slackly open and rhythmic snores beginning to emanate from the back of his throat, late in the afternoon the keeper had decided to do a spot-check of the prison and test all his guards’ mettle.

There’s been a slackness here of late and it’s Malory’s fault. His presence has been a baneful influence, but now he’s gone I must brace up the system. I let myself be led into bad habits by that rogue. Hapgood’s a fair example of his legacy; I’ll see what the caitiff’s up to – asleep if I know anything. I’d put money on it! He walked across from the main body of the building to the old guard tower and prepared to enter the bottom door where Gregory was stationed. As he arrived he saw a figure standing in the gloom, evidently with the same intent. As hard as the man was knocking, there was no reply and he looked around in frustration.

‘What is your business here, sir?’ asked Clyfford. ‘You are on state property – are you on state business?’ The man was muffled in a large hat and voluminous cloak and the keeper could not see his face. ‘Remove your hat, sir and let me see you! Anyone entering a prison so covertly must be up to no good. I order you to stay where you are!’ The stranger made no move to run and, with one hand on his sword, Master Clyfford banged furiously with the other on the studded door, bruising his knuckles which made him even more bad-tempered. ‘For fuck’s sake, Hapgood, rouse yourself and open this cursed door!’ There was a rustling and then a turning of the key and a flustered Gregory poked his head out, blinking like a disturbed owl. His brain took some time to take in the scene – he had been dreaming and, although he had immediately forgotten what it was about, he knew it had been pleasant. After some seconds, he realised that reality was not going to be pleasant. He made a grab for his halberd and tried to stand to attention.

‘Hapgood – you’ve been sleeping on duty again! I could have you thrown in a cell for that – there will be a severe fine.’

There was no gainsaying it; the thought crossed Gregory’s mind that he had been literally caught napping. Sir Tom would have liked that. Other thoughts crowded in which also took the edge off his pleasurable reveries, such as his wife’s reaction when he told her there would be a cessation of funds for fripperies. Fines generally meant periods of frugality – and the response by Mistress Hapgood would be a determined frigidity as far as his conjugal rights were concerned.

While these thoughts were meandering purposefully through Greg’s head, Roger Clyfford had turned to the stranger and demanded to know who he was and what he wanted. ‘Let’s go up to Sir Tom’s room, Master Clyfford. I’d rather speak there than here in the open.’

Clyfford recognised the voice immediately. ‘Why, it’s Sir Anthony Tanner! Why are you so heavily covered sir? You aren’t in any trouble, are you?’

‘We all might be in the shit and sooner than you know.’

‘You know that Sir Tom’s dead, Sir Anthony?’

There was a long silence and Tony Tanner took off his hat and cloak and passed them without a word to Gregory. ‘Dead? When? How?’

‘Let’s do as you suggest and go up to his room. It’s empty of all his belongings, but I have had no cause to place any prisoner there. In truth it seemed like it would be defiling the place. I feel as though his spirit still imbues it.’ Having delivered this lie with masterly confidence, Master Clyfford turned to the hapless guard. ‘Gregory, stay here, do your job and guard the door. For Christ’s sake, straighten up that halberd and look as though you know how to use it!’

The two men trudged slowly up the steps; Master Clyfford pulled open the heavy oak door and Tony stepped into the room. As Clyfford said, it was divested of all remnants of Sir Tom’s belongings: the desk, the truckle bed, the chairs and the little footstool embroidered with silks and patience by Sir Tom’s wife Elizabeth many years before. Yet both men had immediate sensations of the man’s presence – his capacity for irascibility and ribald humour seemed to have seeped into the thick whitewashed walls. Memories of conspiracies hatched, past experiences shared, and heavy drinking bouts came back to Tony. The friendship and companionship of the Newgate Five were etched in his mind. ‘Where’s Pom, Monty and Jack?’ he asked.

‘They’ve gone on Malory’s Quest – as he directed them in his will. They left yesterday.’

‘What do you mean – Malory’s Quest?’

‘They’re taking the manuscript of Le Morte D’Arthur to the monks in Winchester, for them to copy it and keep it safe.’

‘Why Winchester for fuck’s sake?’

‘Because Sir Tom had it in his head that it was his Camelot.’

‘That’s news to me – but then I didn’t take much interest in his great work, as he called it.’

‘Not many of us did, Sir Anthony. But it seems it was very precious to him.’

‘Well, he spent many years on it. I suppose he would value it for that reason alone. Now tell me – when exactly did he die? How and where is he buried? I’d like to pay my respects.’

‘Before that, perhaps you would do me the courtesy of telling me what you mean by in the shit?’

‘You won’t have heard yet, I’m sure, because since this morning I’ve ridden at a hell’s pace from Barnet and must be the first in London with the news. The Earl of Warwick and his brother are dead! It’s all up with the Lancastrians!’ And he gave chapter and verse of what he had witnessed earlier that day.

‘Fuck me! That is serious news. And on Easter Sunday! So, Edward keeps his throne after all. You say his brother Clarence turned his coat and supported Edward when it came to the final battle?’

‘Someone said he had a boy’s brain in a man’s body. He reneged on all agreements he’d made with Lord Warwick. But never mind him. You should be warned that it’s very likely the king will seek revenge on all those that plotted against him. I know you’re not at risk from that, Master Clyfford, but my three friends possibly are. You say they’ve gone to Winchester? You say they left yesterday? What time did they go?’

‘Mid-day.’

‘How do they travel? Not on foot surely?’

‘No, Mister Appleby hired some mounts from the Greyfriars’ stables. I know they’ve taken some provisions, but I have no knowledge of their plans; they didn’t confide in me.’

‘The quickest route to Winchester from London is obviously the drovers’ track on the Downs. If they’d asked me, that would be the route I’d recommend. You say they were mounted?’

‘That’s what I understood.’

‘Well, Pom Appleby will be able to manage a horse, but the other two –? No, neither have any experience. That will restrict their pace; so if they left yesterday they won’t have got further than Kingston where they must cross the Thames – there’s no other bridge that side of the city. I have plenty of time to catch them before they join the Way after Leatherhead. I can go