The road was of good stone as they passed Pontefract. By then Richard had scouts out in wide lines, riding miles beyond the marching ranks. It was they who reported the banners of Montagu flying over the battlements of Pontefract Castle.
Edward did not know how many men lay safe within those walls, but even so, he rode to the edge of arrow-shot and challenged Montagu to come out. There was no reply. Some of Edward’s men showed their bare buttocks to the walls. The action amused Richard, though his brother was tight-faced and smiling falsely as he gave the order to march on. John Neville, Lord Montagu, had played his part in their humiliation the previous year. It would have been a grand beginning to have caught Warwick’s brother beyond his walls and strung him up by his entrails. That would have rung the bell Edward wanted. Instead he could only ride past, looking back over his shoulder at the banners still flying on the battlements there, as if to spite his ambition.
Sandal Castle was a place of special pilgrimage for the sons of York, where their father and brother had been murdered by a French queen fighting with Scots against better men. Edward and Richard knelt on cloaks and prayed for the lost souls of that place, and for the guidance they would need to exact a vengeance long overdue. It was not too much to ask, not in Sandal, close by the city of Wakefield. At least there, so close to their father’s estate, they were not refused at the walls. Edward put his ring to a loan of a thousand gold angel coins, then changed most of them to silver to pay his followers for their service.
Another eighty men joined him when they saw that generous act, ten knights among them, and a dozen smiths and farriers with blades of forge iron in their hands. It was such a small number that Edward came close to despair, though he greeted them as brothers and spoke to all he could. In private, he told Richard he was dreading the sight of the first army to move against his little force. He would be overwhelmed and cut down. England drowsed and Edward could not see how to wake her, or her people.
Each day brought a greater sense of spring and growing in the land. Richard sent men out ahead of them to carry word, but the people were cold and dark of heart. Few came in and it seemed they had turned their faces from the house of York.
The news of them began to spread, so that each town and city they reached knew York had returned. Some were hostile and jeered as they passed or used slings to clatter stones against armoured knights. Edward resisted the desire to leave those villages and towns in flames behind him. He was the king returned, not some brutal usurper. It galled him more than he could express, but he allowed only stern and dignified rebuke in his dealings and not the hand round their throats he would have preferred. He and his brother felt alone in the evenings, though the army grew around them like callus or armour, in dozens and scores at a time. In Doncaster, an old hunting friend brought out two hundred men, well armed and equipped. William Dudley also brought a huge quantity of claret on a cart, though he was astonished to find Edward would not touch a drop of it. His vow of abstinence was holding still, though Richard saw how his brother licked dry lips at the sight of such fine skins and casks. Perhaps because he felt Richard’s probing gaze, Edward did not weaken.
At Nottingham, two men Edward had knighted years before caught up with their column, bringing fully six hundred about as road-weary and travel-stained as it was possible to be, after a hundred miles of loping along in his wake. Edward’s spirits began to rise as he considered how many others owed him their livelihoods and their estates, from lowly manors and trading licences, to barons and earls by the score. Just five months before, he had been their liege lord. If some of them chafed, it seemed they had not all forgotten their oaths.
At Leicester, the first of his great magnates showed his loyalty, as Baron Hastings arrived and knelt before him, renewing his oath to the ‘Rightful son of York and king of England’. Edward embraced the man in joy, at his loyalty, but also at the three thousand in steady ranks Hastings had brought with him to the London road. In all, six thousand men followed the two sons of York, with three lions held high along with the rose of York and the Sun in Flames. There were no hidden ambitions by then, as Edward strode through the camps. He spoke to anyone who asked him and affirmed he had come home for his crown.
That night, Richard and Edward broke bread with Lord Hastings, along with his captain, Sir William Stanley. Once more Edward touched no wine or ale and those who knew him well were solemn, even moved at the changes in him. He ate just a little and pushed away a plate that had not been scoured clean, looking at the newcomers with clear eyes and a fine colour to his skin, the picture of health.
‘Your Highness,’ Hastings said, beaming. ‘I am overjoyed to see you so hale and strong. I only wish every man of England could observe you this moment, perhaps to compare you to the sickly creature and his French wife who are the alternative.’
‘And men like Warwick, Your Highness,’ Sir William Stanley added, raising his cup. ‘Damnation and death to him.’ Stanley had a wiry look compared to some of his rank, with a lustrous beard finely trimmed about his chin and curling into thick moustaches. Edward might have dismissed him as a fop, but his brother Lord Stanley had been a great supporter and it was said the younger son knew the skills of war as well as any other who had devoted his life to them. Richard nodded unreservedly to Stanley’s toast, raising his cup in reply. There could be no settlement with Warwick, not again. Such men had turned traitor so many times they could never be trusted, but only put down like a mad dog.
‘Your three thousand are more than welcome, Lord Hastings,’ Edward replied, settling himself. ‘And I will spend them well. Tell me, then, what news have you of Warwick, of the Earl of Oxford? Of all those traitorous bastards who thought they could run me out of England and never pay a price for that scorn! Tell me of them.’
Hastings gave a great bark of laughter to see Edward so fierce and full of brag.
‘There are perhaps six thousand gathered at Newark, my lord. Under de Vere, Earl Oxford. A far greater force lies with Warwick at Coventry to the south. Some say he has twenty thousand there, or even more.’ For an instant, Hastings looked uncomfortable, but forced himself to continue speaking. ‘Your … brother George is to the south and west of us, my lord. He has some three thousand of his own men and they say he is loyal to Warwick, as his father-in-law.’
‘Yes, Lord Hastings. They do say that,’ Edward replied, with a glance at Richard. ‘My brother has been tainted by Warwick’s influence, that is true enough. I am not certain of him, but I will call on blood over marriage and see which way he leaps.’
Edward waved his hands to clear away unpleasant thoughts.
‘I have my path then, or at least the first step. Newark, if they gather there. We will march, what, a day north? I would not leave that six thousand at my back, perhaps to join with Montagu, when he finally finds the courage to leave his castle at Pontefract. No, that will suit me well – and give me a chance to bind these men into companies. I have found battle to be a powerful bond, Hastings. I have seen too much of it perhaps, but I am not finished yet. Tell your men to be ready to march before dawn. I will see these Oxford dogs and kick their disloyal teeth back down their throats. And I will not stop then, not until it is done.’
Edward’s lords and captains matched him with shouts and clatter, as he was to be seen fully dressed and clear-headed even before the sun had risen. With the king waiting on their pleasure, they raced around to rouse their men from slumber, kicking them into line. There was no time for a proper breakfast and instead they gulped water and snatched meat pasties handed to them as they passed the cooking carts.
Edward’s warhorse was snorting and pawing the ground, taking its mood from the man who waited upon its back. His impatience spread to the rest of them and they set off at a pace that had them sweating after just a mile or two. Yet the road was good and there were streams across their path to take in cold water. Newark was some twenty miles from their camp, but they reached the outer lines of Oxford’s scouts long before no
on, sending those men racing back to carry news of their approach.
Edward slowed the pace then, enough for his captains to arrange the men in wider lines for battle. He sent the hundred Flemish hand-gunners into the front ranks, eager to see what they could do with the heavy guns they carried on their shoulders. He had seen such things before, but they still seemed more noise and smoke than actual bite.
They were to be disappointed. The ranks of hand-gunners shrugged and pinched their smoking fuses dead as the sun reached just past noon. Ahead of them, the trail of thousands of men could be seen stretching away to the south. There were always scraps left behind to mark the passage of an armed force – broken sandal straps and buttons, rotten food thrown down, broken poles and weapons gone to rust. Edward was disappointed, though he saw his men were pleased enough that they would not fight that day. His brother too seemed cheerful and when Edward called him over to ask the reason, Richard laughed.
‘They will not stand, Brother! Can’t you see it? First Montagu hid behind his walls, now Oxford and his captains run for their mothers at the first sight of this royal army marching into sight. Your reputation goes ahead of us like another ten thousand men. They are terrified of you.’
‘Well, they should be,’ Edward said, brightening. He put aside his desire to see the first blow of his return and simply accepted that an enemy haring away in bleating terror was almost as good, perhaps even better for spreading the word.
‘Have the men camp here,’ he called to Anthony Woodville as the big man dismounted nearby. ‘But keep the scouts wide. I will not be ambushed by some scoundrel. Make sure we can see them coming.’
Lord Rivers bowed and went off to pass on the news. The king’s brother-in-law was smiling at Edward’s rekindled enthusiasm, so very different from the bleak months behind them. They all felt it. The army was too small, God knew, but it was still better to be on the move than rooted in one spot.
It took a few hours to collect the camp followers who had fallen behind. Though the day was not old, Edward passed orders for them to rest and mend. They would spend the spring afternoon tending weapons and cuts and eating the vast amounts healthy men needed to march and fight. Trappers went trotting off into the local woods, while others sought out healthy cattle to buy or steal. Rivers chuckled as he hobbled his horse with an old rein and removed his saddle and tack. He remembered the fat and drunken king Edward had been. To see the great hawk returned to them, lean and fierce, was a joy.
Scouts came in and out of the York camp at all hours, working shifts of half a day to keep their eyes fresh for anyone else creeping about in the hills. At sunrise the following morning, one of them came racing in from the north, blowing his horn and yelling the alarm. The entire camp came alive as six thousand men threw off blankets and took up blades and armour. News spread as fast as it could be shouted, that the banners of Montagu had been sighted there, with thousands on the march. It seemed John Neville had come out after all, behind them.
Edward yawned as he was startled awake. He slept on his back in the night air, resting on a blanket and wrapped in two or three cloaks so that his face was bared to the sky and damp. He rose and dressed as the excited young scout stood at his side and passed on his news, proud as a cockerel at being of use.
‘Thank you, son,’ Edward said. He reached in a pouch for a silver penny and found a gold angel in his hand instead. The scout’s eyes widened and Edward chuckled. He took a moment to search for a different coin and then gave up. He was in a strange, light mood, now that his campaign had a sense of life to it. He tossed the coin and the young man snatched it in awe, delighted. Edward looked up to see his brother Richard watching him in amusement.
‘What makes you smile so, Brother?’ Richard said. ‘Did I not hear that Montagu is creeping around behind us?’
‘He is, Richard. Don’t you see it? Warwick lies ahead with his army, with his host. John Neville leans on our shadow behind, so that we are forced south. Just as it was last year, when we ran for the coast.’
‘I do not see why that is cause for your bright eyes …’ Richard replied, beginning to worry that his brother had gone mad.
‘It is not the same, Richard. I had eight hundred before, in the winter. I have six thousand with me now, in the spring. And you know, I am not the man I was. I tell you, Brother. I will eat them alive when they come. I will call them out for their treachery and their cowardice and I will spit their bones back!’
Derry Brewer raised a silver fork with a piece of roasted pork on it. The polished implement had been the gift of the Italian ambassador, a man whose company Derry enjoyed, though he trusted him not at all. Ambassador D’Urso was clearly a spy, though he seemed genuinely pleased that Lancaster had regained the throne. Old nations preferred stability, Derry assumed. They did not enjoy usurping kings, or peasant revolts. Such things made the foundations of their own kingdoms tremble. Before he had gone, the man had said that Edward had left by the door and would have difficulty finding his way in by the window. That he would surely leave his skin behind. Derry chuckled to himself. It was amusing how foreigners talked.
‘One more, Harry,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ King Henry frowned slightly without looking at him, but he opened his mouth and Derry pressed the piece of meat and gravy between his lips, watching patiently as he chewed.
When a knock sounded, Derry arranged the table so that the bowl and the fork were in front of the king and no sign remained that he had been feeding him like a child. He called for the visitor to enter, fully aware that only the most important news could have found its way past the layers of guards at each door and stair of the Palace of Westminster.
The man who entered handed over a grey pigeon, held upside down and seemingly quite at peace. Derry’s interest sharpened at seeing a tiny brass tube attached to its leg. He checked it had not been disturbed and gave the bird back to the man as he backed away, flickering a glance at the seated king, who had not reacted at all.
Derry unspooled a tiny strip of paper, standing closer to the windows to see it in the best light. He dropped it into the flame of an oil lamp then and sat back down by King Henry, taking up the fork and the bowl, long cold.
‘Edward of York has landed, Your Highness,’ Derry said softly. ‘He is riding south, where we are waiting for him.’
He had not expected a reply and Derry blinked as the king spoke.
‘Cousin York is a good man, Derry.’
‘Of course he is, Your Majesty. Course he is. Come on now, if you don’t mind. One more piece. You have to eat to stay strong.’
13
The sun shone and Edward inspected his new horse, the gift of a knight who had bred the massive brown destriers himself and clearly wished to impress him. Sir James Harrington had also brought forty lads from the town he owned a few miles from Leicester, a dozen archers among them. In all, it had been a princely gift and if they survived, Edward knew he would indeed find some reward for the man, along the lines of dean of his chapel, or one of a hundred posts that were a king’s to bestow, each bringing wealth and status to the owner.
‘I will ride him this very day and test his wind, Sir James,’ he said. ‘I would be pleased to have you accompany me.’ The knight dropped to one knee, overwhelmed. As Edward turned aside, Sir James rejoined the gaggle of his family and servants outside, pleased as anything to have spoken to the king.
Edward turned to his brother, watching him wryly. He smiled at Richard’s expression.
‘Would you have dismissed him or scorned him after such a gift, Richard? England is made of such fellows. Clever, deal-making men who work all the hours of the day and kiss their wives and count their coins at the end of it. Men of good judgement and clear sight, hard to fool, who will bend the knee to me only if they think I am a man to follow.’
‘Then I am pleased you are such a man, Brother,’ Richard said. ‘Though I worry you have let their admiration turn your head.’
Edward chuckled, rubbing his big hand alon
g the muzzle of the horse. It loomed over even him, an animal of extraordinary strength and size. Yet it stood calmly, trained and watchful.
‘You are the one who opened my eyes, Richard. Montagu hangs back, Oxford runs with his tail tucked away as soon as he sights my banners. They are afraid – and I am glad of it. I have said I will not stop. I will take risks enough to shame the devil himself! How else would you have me turn this small army into a victory? You know Warwick has a host …’ He broke off, clenching his fists as he heard how loud his voice had become. He whistled for a servant and handed the horse over, then stepped closer to his brother.
‘Richard, I have too few. If Warwick had the sense – no, the warlike manner to move against me, we would be swallowed up. I am a man who has to throw his sword! If it strikes home, that will end it. If it misses, the man will be made to seem a fool, mocked and defenceless. Do you understand? That is why I have our columns growing lean and strong on these marches. We must hit Warwick before he decides he has the strength and numbers to chase us down. Even with too few men, I can challenge him. I can call him out. Who knows, he might even face me.’
Richard rubbed at his mouth, suddenly aching for a drink to take the edge off all his worries. He had not said anything about it, but as Edward suffered on through his abstinence, Richard had quietly matched him. His appetites had never been nearly as great, but he found the lack of ale and wine had sharpened him, sometimes to an edge that cut. He felt the lack when anger and frustration overwhelmed him. That was when brown ale and clear spirits would have been a wondrous ease to his troubled mind. Without them, the world was full of thorns and irritations.
‘I am at your side, Edward, right to the end, even if you throw your sword. I swear it, I will not let you down. Nor any man who has come to you here. Perhaps they are worth two or three of those who stand against us because of that loyalty. I hope so.’
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 17