Reluctantly, uneasy he was there, I went to my master’s back room, a small, ill-lit place, stinking of sweat and dregs. It had a wide straw-stuffed bed and an old cleft table upon which a burning candle was stuck in a pool of gray wax. On the floor was Tackley’s iron-strapped money chest. It was open.
My master sat at the table, his wife across. Before him lay the day’s earnings: a meek mound of farthings, groats, and pennies. Beneath Mistress Tackley’s greedy gaze, the tavern keeper was tallying the coins with his fat, dirty fingers.
“Master,” I whispered, “that Black Friar is back.”
Tackley stopped counting. “What does he want?”
“You.”
Master and Mistress eyed one another. If they said anything, I didn’t hear. The next moment, Tackley—with a grunt—heaved himself up from the table.
When he stepped to the door I started to follow. He shoved me back. “Stay here and make sure she doesn’t steal anything.” He pointed to his wife and went out.
Moments later Tackley returned with a leather pouch. He pitched it onto the table, where it landed with a clink, the unmistakable sound of coins.
His wife glanced up.
“He purchased the boy,” Tackley announced to her. Only then did he turn to me. “Go to the friar. He’s your new master.”
“Sir . . . ?” I gasped, not sure I’d heard correctly.
“Are you deaf, boy? The priest bought you. You’re his.”
I stood there, astonished.
“Go!” cried Tackley.
I was too frightened to move.
“Didn’t you hear?” Tackley bellowed. “You belong to him. Leave!”
“Did . . . did you know he was coming back for me?” I asked.
“Out!” shouted Tackley.
Speechless, confused, unable to grasp how my life could wrinkle so quickly, I remained in place until Tackley raised a fist, ready to strike.
Unwillingly, I crept back to the main room. The Black Friar stood there, looking down at me as if to assay his purchase. The manservant was on the steps.
Trembling, I peeked up, my head a-tumble with questions. What is going to happen? I’ve never been anywhere else. How can I leave Tackley’s? How will this priest use me?
“Come along.”
I looked to see if I could run away, but the manservant blocked the only escape.
I glanced back. Master Tackley stood watching. I gave him a pleading look. He ignored it.
Full of dread but having no choice, I followed the friar out of the tavern.
SIX
HEAVY RAIN WAS falling from the dark sky.
“Follow me,” said the priest.
Instantly drenched, heart thumping, I found tongue to ask, “Please, Sir Priest, where are we going?”
“To the friary where you will become what you truly are.”
“What . . . what is that?”
He scowled and for a moment I thought he might answer, but with a sharp glance at the servant—as if to say “not with him around”—he only said, “In time,” turned, and started down the puddled, muddy street.
I took a step so as to bolt away, only to have the servant snatch my arm to keep me from going.
We started walking.
“Brother,” I called as we went along, my bare feet squissing in the mud, “might I know your name?”
“Brother Richard Simonds,” was his reply—to which he added, “No more talk.”
His long strides forced me to take half skips to keep up. There was pain in my stomach. I was trembling. Feeling as if I were following a shadow, I kept my eyes on the friar’s black cloak. What’s going to happen to me? I kept thinking.
The manservant, hard upon my back, kept poking me on.
Church bells tolled the late hour. I decided the friar had chosen the time so no one would see what was happening. The thought thickened my fright.
The rain poured down. We hurried along the High Street, passing All Saints Church, which made me think of the players. How I wished then I’d gone over to them. I considered bolting again, but the servant, as if guessing my thoughts, gripped me harder. I couldn’t break free.
At St. Martin’s Church we turned and proceeded along Fish Street, crossed Trill Stream, and then made another turn, going by the mill. I tried to keep our passage in mind so—when I had the chance—I could run back to Tackley’s.
Before us loomed the fortress-like Dominican friary with its high square tower. The brother approached a small wooden door—strap hinged and studded with rusty iron nails. He was not, I realized, using the main entrance. All he did increased my dismay. Why such secrecy?
The brother yanked the door open, gestured for me to enter, and stepped inside. With the servant pushing me, I stumbled in. The door slammed behind me.
Fearful as to what might happen next, I peered about. We were at the head of a deserted hall. A few lanterns revealed rows of slender pillars extending into murkiness. Though I saw no other people, I heard the sound of sacred singing, slow and sorrowful, as if from another sphere.
Is he going to kill me?
The friar handed the servant a groat, and in return the man gave him his torch and went away. I never saw him again.
“Brother—”
“No talk,” the friar said softly. “Move along. I’m right behind you.”
He forced me to descend steep stone steps, so narrow I had to press my hands upon the frigid walls on either side to keep from falling. Once below, we came upon a cave-like passageway with brown walls and many doors. Using a large key, the priest opened one of them.
His light revealed a small monk’s cell with white walls. A plain wooden crucifix hung upon one wall, under that was a praying stool. Near another wall lay a squared pile of straw, which I took to be a bed. A small table and stool. Nothing else, not even a window.
The friar gestured to the straw. “Say your prayers and go to sleep,” he said.
“Please, sir, I beg you to tell me—”
“Not now,” he said.
Taking the torch with him, he left, slamming the door behind him. All was dark. I know the door was locked because I felt for it, tried to open it, banging, kicking, and calling. To no avail.
Cold, wet, and shivery, I was a prisoner. I knew not why. Only one thought filled my head: What is going to happen to me?
SEVEN
I DON’T KNOW the hour when the friar, candle in hand, woke me. I sat up, rubbed my face, and looked about, forgetting for the moment all that had happened. When I remembered, all my distress returned.
The priest’s candlelight allowed me to see that he had placed some bread and cheese, as well as a jug, on the small table. The smell of food stirred me. The bread, however, was white, not dark barley-oat bread, my normal fare. Since I had never been allowed to eat white bread, I merely looked at it, my mouth watering.
Brother Simonds gestured. “Go on,” he said. “Eat.”
“Truly?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Before the friar could change his mind, I stuffed my mouth as if pushing a cork into a bottle. When he told me I might eat the cheese too, I did. While I bolted the food, and drank, he watched me intently, as if my eating could tell him things.
When I’d done, he said, “You’ll remain here. I don’t wish you to be seen on the streets.”
I flung myself on my knees and lifted my hands in supplication. “Please, Sir Priest, I swear by all the saints and each and every holy martyr, if you believe I’m someone else, you’re wrong. I’m a nobody. Ask Master Tackley.”
“I don’t care what you say,” he said. “I know who you are.”
“Who?” I asked, as baffled as ever.
Instead of answering, he took his candle and left, leaving me in that dark cell. I tried to open the door. It was useless.
I remained in the darkness, longing to be back at Tackley’s Tavern: turning the spit, dodging blows and insults, doing whatever Master ordered me to do. That was the world I knew. Moreover,
since the tavern was rarely quiet, the silence surrounding me now was frightening. All I could hear was my own fear.
EIGHT
AFTER WHAT SEEMED forever, the friar returned. This time he brought a clerical robe, such as he wore, but sized for me.
“Put this on. And cover your face.”
“Why?”
“You must not be seen.”
Puzzled, I looked up at him. “Brother, there’s no one else here to see me but you.”
“We are going out.”
“Where?”
“You’ll learn when you get there.”
I pulled the thick wool robe over my tunic—glad, at least, for the warmth. He fixed the cowl so my face was mostly hidden.
“Now come,” he said. “No talk.”
We stepped outside. It was evening, so I knew a whole day had passed. Though the rain had ceased, the air was curded with mist, which swirled like a low, damp cloud. The world seemed to have lost its shape. Not knowing where we were going or why, my anxiety fairly gnawed on my heart.
Clutching me tightly with one hand, the friar used his hooded lamp to guide us silently through narrow, crooked ways. He was avoiding the main streets. It was clear to me that whatever the brother intended, he wished it secret. You might not think it possible for my fright to increase, but it did.
I decided that the best way of escaping would be by asking strangers for help, claiming I was being stolen. But every time someone emerged out of the mist, the friar shoved me to one side, slapped a hand across my mouth, and stood over me. I couldn’t speak or get away.
It was only when we came into the Queen’s College area that he halted.
“We’re going there.” He gestured toward a huge building with light blooming from its many windows.
“What is that place?” I asked, eyeing the building warily.
By way of answering, Brother Simonds turned me around and forced me to look up at him, holding his lamp so close to my face I felt its heat. His own face, peering out from his hood, was, to my surprise, full of unease.
“Is there some danger here?” I managed to whisper.
Squeezing me painfully by my shoulders, he said, “Speak only when you are spoken to. If you are told to do something, do it.”
“What is it? What’s going to happen?”
“You’re going to stand before a noble person.”
“Who?”
“You’ll learn soon enough.”
“Why would such a person want me?”
“He needs you.”
“Needs?”
The friar’s grip grew tighter, his face more intense. “Just know that how you act will determine if you live.”
“Am I going to die?” I cried.
“You’ll do as you’re told. Now, be still.”
The brother led me—heart thumping, legs weak—into the building by way of an open court where horses with rich trappings were tied. We passed under a kind of porch, and then went through heavy doors into an enormous hall. Four soldiers with armor, helmets, and swords stood on guard. Are they, I wondered, to be my executioners?
I looked about. Many people, mostly men but some women, were milling about. All were finely garbed.
As for the room, the ceiling was high, with vaulting beams. Some kind of wheel was hanging down, on which lit candles had been placed. Bright lanterns were set about. Armor, flags, swords, shields, and lances were on the walls, while sweet incense perfumed the air. I also noticed a gigantic fireplace. Five fireplaces such as existed in Tackley’s could have fit within this one, in which huge logs were burning. The room was very warm. All in all, the hall displayed more wealth and power than I had ever seen before. Why am I here? I kept asking myself.
The friar bent over and whispered, “Keep your hood low.”
I did as told but managed to peek out. At the furthest end of the room, opposite from where we stood, was a raised platform and a long table. Behind that table, in the middle, was a large padded chair. Smaller chairs were ranged to either side.
Seated in the largest chair was a young man. He was wearing a black velvet cap, a black tunic with slashed sleeves showing scarlet, and a ruffed white collar. Jeweled rings gleamed on his fingers.
His hair was close-cropped and he had a well-trimmed, if thin, beard of ruddy hue that came to a short point. His eyes were large, dark, and, so it seemed to me, full of anger. His thin lips suggested cruelty.
All around were courtiers waiting on him. These people approached, bowed, offered up plates of food, drink, or what looked to be sheets of parchment. Some of these offerings the young man took. Others he brushed away with a scornful wave of his hand.
Taking an instant dislike to the man, I tugged on Brother Simonds’s robe. “Who is that?” I asked, my voice low.
Into my ear the friar said, “He’s the Earl of Lincoln. John de la Pole, cousin to a queen. Nephew of King Richard. Head of the house of York. England’s most powerful Lancastrian lord.”
Quite astonished, I said, “Is he the one who needs me?”
“Shhh!” the friar cautioned, his face tight with strain. It made me think that it wasn’t just me who was about to be judged fit to live or die, but him, too.
The Earl of Lincoln glanced up. His eyes made a sweep across the hall, only to halt when he saw the friar and me. The hardness of his look deepened my dread.
Next moment, Lincoln sat back in his chair and made a motion with his hand. An old white-bearded man, robed in black and yellow silks, with a chain of what looked like gold round his neck, stood up. Lincoln said something to him, after which the old man faced the room and clapped his hands. “The earl,” he called, “requires all of you to withdraw. Brother Simonds will remain.”
There was much bowing, backing, and leaving, with many a questioning glance at the friar, but happily, not me.
Within moments, even the soldiers had retreated. Only three people remained in that huge hall: the Earl of Lincoln, the friar, and me, Lambert Simnel. I felt very small. The beating of my heart seemed very large. I had come, I had no doubt, to learn my fate.
NINE
THE FRIAR PEELED away the cowl that covered my head.
Lincoln stared at me with intense curiosity. “Is this the boy you told me about?” he called across the room to Brother Simonds.
“He is, my lord.”
“And where did you find him?”
“Here in Oxford, my lord. Working in a tavern.”
Lincoln continued to gaze at me. “Come here,” he barked.
I was too scared to move. The friar had to push me.
Hardly daring to breathe, fearful of drawing too close, I edged forward, then stopped and peeked up.
Lincoln remained sitting, fingers drumming the tabletop, eyes fixed on me. “Nearer!” he cried, his voice whip-like.
Trembling, I did as told.
“Halt!”
I stopped.
Lincoln rubbed his beard. His eyes aimed at me like sharp spear points. He bit the side of his thumb. As if agitated, the fingers of his left hand continued to tap the table. I tried to guess his thoughts—how he considered me. I could not.
Abruptly, he stood, came out from behind his table, and walked about me much the way I had seen Master Tackley judge a sheep he was offered for slaughter.
“Is he well-witted?” Lincoln called out.
“He is, my lord,” said the friar.
Well-witted! No one had ever attached that word to me before.
“Is he reasonable? Follows orders?”
“My lord, he’ll do what he’s told.”
That, at least, was what everybody asked of me.
“Remove his robe,” Lincoln commanded.
The friar pulled off my clerical gown, so that I stood in my tattered tunic, bare feet, and normal dirt. I felt ashamed, a loathed nobody, just the way I was when standing on the table at Tackley’s Tavern. I felt nothing but contempt for myself.
The earl reached out and gripped my chin, his rin
gs painfully pricking my skin. To study my face he turned my head this way and that, the way traders considered horses.
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
Seeking some notion how to reply, I tried to shift toward Brother Simonds.
Lincoln held me fast. “Look at me!” he snapped, jerking my chin up. “Now, again, where do you come from?”
“Master Tackley’s tavern, my lord.”
“No. Before!” He was holding my face so tightly I felt like crying out.
“I don’t know, my lord,” I whispered.
“Louder!”
“Please, I don’t know where I’m from.”
“No idea?”
The friar called out, “People say he’s an orphan.”
“What name do you use?”
“Lambert Simnel, my lord.”
“Is that what he’s called?” Lincoln asked the friar.
“Does it matter, my lord?”
The earl released me and wiped his hand on his tunic as if he had touched slime. “Walk about,” he said.
Though hating it, I did as told.
“Enough!”
I stopped.
The next moment Lincoln cried, “He’s dirty!” and turned his back on me as something despicable. Though I had no idea what had happened, I felt that deep shame again.
“My lord,” said the friar, “he will be mucked.” He dropped the robe over me as if capping a candle.
To Brother Simonds, Lincoln said, “But you believe you can . . . bring back this boy’s memory and manners?”
“All that’s needed, my lord, is money, and a place to work.”
“Done secretly?”
“You and I, my lord, have discussed the consequence if otherwise.”
Lincoln considered me with his hard eyes. “Very well,” he said to the friar. “You shall have the money. For a while anyway. But in God’s name, clean him. I can’t abide filth. And feed him! He must look smooth.”
TEN
ORDERED INTO a corner while the friar and Lincoln conferred, I tried to listen, but heard nothing. I tried to guess what was happening but couldn’t. Then I saw the earl give the friar a purse and key, and a tremor passed through me, fearful that I had been sold again. Instead the brother returned to me and said, “Come along. But cover your face and stay close.”