Warwick found his eyes blurring and he blinked, pleased that there was no one else to see and think him weak. He had been a tutor to Edward, and then to his brother Richard, when he had lived at Middleham Castle as Warwick’s ward. They had been fast friends once and it was cruel to see them arrayed against him. The worst was Clarence, a wound so fresh it hurt him with every taken breath. In all, Warwick felt as a father denied by his sons and the pain struck right to the heart of him.
14
For the first time in his life that he could remember, Derry Brewer considered punching an archbishop in the mouth. He could almost feel the muscles twitching along his arms and chest. A nice little jab with the left, then drop the cane and bring the right cross in. George Neville was no white-livered clergyman, however. The man was burly and about as angry as Derry himself at being baulked. The king’s spymaster knew that if he threw a punch, they would be scuffling on the floor like two schoolboys in moments, all torn collars and bloody lips. He was too old for it, more was the pity.
‘Your Grace,’ he tried once more with exaggerated patience. ‘I am better placed than you to make this judgement. King Henry is not well enough for what you ask. If he was, truly, I would have him wrapped in a good cloak and I would have rushes laid along the street, just as you are asking. But he isn’t. He won’t understand what you want. He might fall. He might cry out, do you follow? It will not help for him to be seen weak!’
‘Where is Beaufort, Duke Somerset? I am weary of your resistance. Send a man to summon Somerset to vouch for me.’
‘My lord Somerset is not in London, Your Grace,’ Derry said for the second time, with deliberately icy patience. He did not say that Margaret and her son, Edward of Lancaster, were expected any day and that Somerset had gone to the coast to escort them. That news was about the best-kept secret in the country.
The lack of explanation turned Archbishop Neville an even deeper shade of claret.
‘My brother Warwick trusts you, Master Brewer. That is the only reason I have not summoned guards to have you removed from my path. I am a prince of the Church, sir! I have come here with a dire warning in time of war – and I find myself arguing with a lackey as if I had come to beg for alms? So let me say this, sir! It is my considered judgement that London itself lies in peril and with it, King Henry. He must be seen, Master Brewer! Do you understand that much? The people of London know nothing of the greater events in the land, nothing. All they hear are alarums and rumours of invasions, of fleets sighted. Is the king dead? Is York returned? Is Margaret of Anjou marching once more on the city that refused her, to burn it down? I have heard a dozen speculations just this morning, Master Brewer, and no sign of the truth. I need to show Henry to his people, to reassure them – yes, and to show them for whom they fight. The king is a symbol, Brewer, not just a man.’
‘Your Grace, King Henry is … withdrawn. Until you see him …’ Derry broke off, considering. He held no official role as the keeper of the king’s door, but he had been so long associated with King Henry and so clearly trusted that he had become the final arbiter over who was granted an audience. The Archbishop of York may have been within his rights to call for the king’s own guards, but Derry had a shrewder sense of whether they would fulfil his order or not. He was confident he could have the archbishop thrown out. That was a decision that would surely come back to bite him, however, or even Margaret and her son, whenever they deigned to take ship and actually come home. No one crossed the Church lightly. The easiest path was to give the Neville clergyman what he wanted and let him see he had made a wasted trip into the city.
With a disarming change of expression, Derry bowed to the younger man.
‘Your Grace, perhaps I have overstepped my bounds. If you will follow me, I will bring you to the king’s presence.’
Archbishop Neville wasted no more time on talk and fell in behind as Derry tap-tapped his way along a corridor to the private royal suite beyond. It was Derry who gave the word of the day to the guards there, men who would refuse even him if the correct signal was missed. The king’s spymaster swept on through an audience chamber with four men standing to attention along the walls.
‘Stand easy, gentlemen,’ Derry called airily as he went through. They ignored him as always.
Beyond the public rooms, they came to a final, smaller door, guarded by one old man who had as much chance of stopping armed invaders as a small boy.
‘Old Cecil here has guarded doors for the best part of forty years,’ Derry said.
‘Forty-two, Brewer,’ the man replied, looking down his nose. He appeared to have no love for the king’s spymaster. Derry sighed.
‘And valuable work it is, I am sure. There is no better-guarded door in the kingdom.’
‘Wait here,’ the old man said with a sniff. He knocked and went inside and Derry followed immediately on his heels, making the doorkeeper round on him in spittle-flecked rage. Derry held up his hands.
‘We have discussed this, Master Fosden. The king is not in good health. If I waited on his call, I would be here all night and then where would the kingdom be?’
‘Better off,’ the old man snapped. He bowed his head and muttered ‘Your Grace’ to Archbishop Neville, then left, pulling the door hard shut behind him.
‘Cantankerous old sod,’ Derry said, close enough to the oak to be heard beyond it. ‘I should have his pay docked.’
Archbishop Neville was already crossing the room to where Henry lay in bed, his long hair unbound and spread like a dark halo upon the pillow. He looked white rather than the pale yellow of a corpse, but though the eyes were open, there was precious little life in them.
As Derry looked on, the archbishop approached and dropped to one knee, extending his hand to touch the king’s coverlet, though Henry made no move to take it in his own.
‘I am George Neville, Your Highness, Archbishop of York. I pray each day for your good health,’ the man muttered with bowed head. ‘I pray that you might be well enough to walk the streets once more, to allow the people of London to see you alive. I fear they will turn to York if they do not, in their childlike awe. They know no better, Your Highness.’
Henry sat up in the bed, appearing to listen as he gathered his hair in a long tail, then let it fall loose once more. He had eaten rather better in recent months than during his imprisonment in the Tower, but he was still frighteningly thin, like the carvings of death seen on gravestones and tombs. His bones all showed and Derry saw hope seep slowly out of the archbishop.
‘If you say I must, Your Grace,’ King Henry said suddenly. ‘I am a servant of Christ and my people. I will rise, if I need to.’
Derry cleared his throat.
‘His Highness tends to agree, when earnest men come and say they need him to sign or seal or lend them something so important it will not wait. It would be a cruel thing to take advantage of his nature, Your Grace.’
Archbishop Neville looked from man to king and back, his gaze remaining on the frail figure sitting up in bed and watching him. He too sensed the absence of a guiding will, for the words he spoke were as much to Derry as the king.
‘Nonetheless, I must ask. This is the crossroad, Your Highness. York has returned to England and he will break the walls and bring all the towers down unless he is stopped. The people of London are afraid – and right to be! If they can see King Henry walk amongst them, with the banners of Lancaster flying overhead, they will know there is still a heart to the city.’
Derry saw Henry nodding along and he winced at the sight as the king looked across the room to him.
‘I would like to do it, Derry,’ he said.
Derry found himself breathing out hard, surprised by grief as his face creased up and he nodded, mastering himself too late.
‘Then I will make it happen, Your Majesty. I’ll walk with you.’ The look Derry turned on the archbishop then was one of cold-eyed fury that made the other man quail.
From the height of the north wall tower, Warwick wa
tched in growing disbelief as a man in royal livery rode forward from the army of York, bearing a horn as long as his arm. Warwick looked down to the walls stretching away on both sides. His own herald waited there to take any reply he might wish to send.
A scrape and echo of metal on stone signalled the arrival of the Duke of Exeter on the tower roof. Warwick nodded to welcome him though in truth he would have preferred to be alone rather than share such a moment. Henry Holland was no great thinker, unfortunately. Just when Warwick needed a good tactician, he had Exeter to stare over the battlements at his side, like a short-sighted bulldog. The man’s lower jaw actually did jut out further than the one above, giving him an aggressive air that suited the map of broken veins on his cheeks from years of drink.
Some sixty feet below on the plain, the York herald’s voice rang out with all the volume and reach of his profession. Warwick sighed and scratched his head.
‘… a personal challenge on behalf of His Majesty King Edward of York, in answer to injuries and insults borne against his royal person and his line.’
The list of faults was brief enough and Warwick noted the number of times the herald used royal honours and titles. The man made no mention of Edward having lost his crown, as if the house of York wished to pretend it had not happened.
‘Impudent bastard,’ Exeter muttered, peering down. Warwick almost sent him away then. It was not that he had no need of counsel. A choice lay before him that shook him to his foundations. However, he would not be taking that counsel from the Duke of Exeter.
‘De Vere and I have six thousand men a few miles to the east,’ Exeter went on. ‘Your brother Montagu is as close behind, as I heard it. We had Clarence to the west, though that is wasted now of course.’
‘I know very well how and where we all stand, my lord,’ Warwick said, somewhat curtly. Exeter did not miss the prickling scorn and grew a darker shade of purple if anything, leaning in and prodding the air with a finger as he made his points.
‘Will you consider sending a champion? Or will you perhaps go yourself, Neville?’
Warwick controlled a spasm of dislike. Over the best part of two decades, he had fought on both sides of a brutal civil war. It was inevitable that he would encounter men he had faced as enemies in battle. Some, like Somerset, he respected. Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter, he did not. The man was a tyrant with those who were unlucky enough to fall into his power, and a lickspittle with those he considered his superiors. Men like Warwick were somewhere in a middle rank, less clear. Warwick had more land and power, more wealth and experience than Exeter, but always with the knowledge that a duke could command an earl. Exeter was only too aware of such niceties, while Warwick had seen so many things that he hardly thought of rank at all, until perhaps when he was needled by a pink-faced fool.
‘After you, my lord, if you wish,’ Warwick said, indicating the York herald. ‘I am a couple of years older than you – and you could not face him. Edward is at his greatest strength. I do not believe I have a man in the army who could carry my colours down to that field and win. No, I will not give York a life just to increase his own legend. However, my lord, I am certain you have pressing duties below. You should ready your captains by the main north gate.’
‘There will be some who’ll call you faint-hearted if you don’t come out, Neville.’
‘Well, I am not concerned with the chatter of fools, Holland,’ Warwick replied sharply. He kept his back turned, but his anger was finding a focus in Exeter rather than the enemy calling him out on the field. It was idiocy to be arguing with one of his own men at such a delicate time.
‘You have ten thousand or so in the city,’ the duke went on stubbornly, ‘but at least as many just a few miles south of here by Warwick Castle. Have you sent a rider to bring them up? I have de Vere, Earl Oxford, and our six thousand out to the east, ready to flank the bastards. So bring ’em in, Neville. Set ’em loose!’
‘I will send my orders to you when I am ready, my lord,’ Warwick said calmly. ‘Not before you have resumed your proper post by the north gate. I believe I have command of the army over you. The army I gathered and paid and fed all winter, while you took your few thousand and did what with them? You took back estates you had lost when Edward sat the throne. You dispossessed your wife who had kept some part for you – and you settled a dozen old scores in murder and torture while you could. I’m sure the results have been to your satisfaction, Holland. I would love to have done the same, instead of taking loans from every monastic house and banker to support the king!’
His voice had grown louder and harder as he spoke and he rounded then on Exeter, stepping in close enough to threaten.
‘Do you understand, Holland? You saw your chance to take vengeance, in spite and ruin. I saw a chance at peace.’
‘Oh yes, you are an admirable fellow, Neville,’ Exeter said, mocking him. ‘And much good has it done you. You’ll find no gratitude from that broken thing that sits in Westminster.’
‘Go down to your men, my lord,’ Warwick said, struggling to master his anger though he thought it would choke him. ‘I will decide whether to sally out or remain.’
‘They will call you coward if you don’t answer York,’ Henry Holland said.
‘Coward?’ Warwick snapped, his temper breaking. ‘I fought at Towton, you pup! I stood at Edward’s side and I killed men on foot, in snow, with blood across my face and friends cut down on either side of me. I went on until I could hardly stand and the darkness came. And still we fought! When Norfolk crashed against the wing, when it was all screaming and dying men.’ He tapped his forehead hard with two steel fingers, leaving a mark. ‘I still see it! Ah, you don’t know anything.’
Exeter had lost his flush as Warwick ranted in fury, close enough to leave small flecks of spittle on his cheek.
‘I know I stood on the other side,’ he said softly. ‘I know I saw more of my friends and followers killed that day, by you and by York. Worse than any losses you think you have suffered. I know the man you followed that day denied me my estates and my houses and my villeins and my servants. And I know York is out there with an army half the size of yours … and yet he is the one to challenge, while you hide behind walls. I tell you, I like this not at all.’
‘Go to your men. Wait for my order,’ Warwick said once more. Henry Holland looked at him for a long time, biting a part of his lower lip as he considered. Warwick waited, knowing that at least one choice remaining to him was to draw his sword. He would almost have welcomed it. Yet in the end Exeter only sneered and turned away to the stairs without another word.
Warwick breathed out slowly. He could hear the noise of the descending duke and he turned back to the Plantagenet armies of York – of Edward and Richard and George. He felt the pain of it once more. To be the victor, he had to destroy three boys he had raised up to be men. He knew how they would stand together, just as he stood with his brothers. He shook his head. He was forty-two years old and he had fought for over sixteen of them. He had sinned and he had lost friends and his father. He had witnessed bravery at the moment of death, had known bitter exile and murder and great victory, all of it marking him where it could not rub off or be washed away. He had no sons of his own. He began to chuckle into the breeze, though it was far closer to sobbing than laughter.
Derry bit his lip as the king took his first steps along the wide roadway. Henry wore a simple gold crown for his stroll through London, though the buttery-yellow metal was perhaps more wealth than anyone in the crowds would ever see again. The king had been dressed in brown wool, tunic, hose and cloak. Henry seemed to understand what was wanted of him, though his eyes looked dull. He had nodded when Derry asked if he wished to begin.
The path they’d prepared was dry and wide, with royal guards on duty to prevent the rushes being stolen and turning up later in a dozen taverns. London people took delight in that sort of acquisition and it had been a challenge to keep watch on the road from before dawn. The king’s path led along Ca
nnon Street to St Paul’s Cathedral, past the London Stone that the rebel Jack Cade had struck with steel so many years before. It was less than a mile through the centre of the city, Derry told himself. It would not take long, even at King Henry’s feeble pace.
Drummers began their rattle at the far front, giving a marching rhythm far slower than anything suited to the battlefield. Horns blew and Derry recalled that they were not just to fire the blood of men about to charge, but also to drown out the screams and panicked yells of those who wanted to run.
Archbishop Neville had a carriage standing ready at the end to collect the king, if he fell from exhaustion. That prince of the Church had ignored Derry’s continuing stream of objections, all undermined by the fact that King Henry himself seemed pleased to do it. Derry was not certain if Henry truly understood, but it was possible. The king had been given a task and told it was something he could do to help save his throne. Henry had latched on to that simple idea and could not be dissuaded.
Walking behind, Derry Brewer looked over twin lines of Londoners, all gathered in the dawn to be sure of seeing the king walk by. He wondered how many remembered Henry walking almost as a prisoner of the Yorks before, with the father of the household lording it over Henry’s wife. Those were unpleasant memories, but Henry only smiled to the people waving and calling to him.
Archbishop Neville came to Derry’s shoulder, looking flushed and nervous. As well he might, Derry supposed. If the king fell, the blame would land on that man alone, he would make sure of it.
Behind them and in front, the best part of a hundred men-at-arms and knights walked in slow step. They wore polished armour and carried vast royal banners that swept back and forth in the breeze like the sails of ships. Derry dared not hope as he looked down the length of road. As long as Henry did not stumble, or faint, or become afraid … He blinked at his own worries, dreading the half an hour ahead of them.
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 19