Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors

by Conn Iggulden

  The roadway from Moorgate through the centre of the city was glutinous, a mixture of mud, pig’s blood from butchers’ shops, various chemical outpourings that stung the nose, and of course the ordure of both animal and man, sitting in forgotten piles where the original owners had left them. What sewers there were sometimes leaked back into the streets and the results were fairly eye-watering. Edward found himself breathing shallowly as he went deeper and deeper in, waiting for his lungs to accept the stronger air. It was good for you, so they said.

  He considered his brother’s question seriously. On entering, Edward had experienced a soaring confidence, a giddy sense almost of awe. He had not dared to imagine he would see the London streets again, not riding in at the head of an army to take back his throne. That delighted madness had drained slowly away under the stares of thousands of men and women, all interrupting their day’s work to come and see him pass.

  Control of London meant the Tower and the Royal Mint, St Paul’s, the river itself and the Guildhall, where the lord mayor had retired to his rooms and refused to come out. It meant lords and wealth, both of which would be vital. Yet on that first day, there was little Edward actually needed in the walled part of the city, for all the symbolism of entering.

  Scouts and messengers came back and forth as he walked his horse, some accepting payment. Richard glanced down at promises and oaths, at men declaring new loyalty and wasting no time in making claims against land and titles they had lost. He passed on just a few more pressing snippets he thought Edward might want to know. In that way, they learned that King Henry lay prostrate in the royal rooms at Westminster. It seemed the poor fellow had been driven almost to collapse by some farce of a walk through the city the day before.

  The Royal Palace of Westminster lay away from the foul odours of the city proper, a good mile along the river – and in that cluster of Parliament and Abbey, of jewel house and Westminster Hall, lay everything that mattered to Edward. Yet he was unutterably weary and content to let them all wait on his pleasure. Baynard’s Castle was a York fortress on the river bank. The thought of resting there in peace and safety made him yawn until his jaw cracked.

  ‘The men are exhausted,’ Edward said at last, gesturing his brother closer. ‘In truth, I am tired and sore myself. Forty miles today, enough for anyone. Pass word for the captains to seek out warehouses, taverns, empty houses – anywhere they can find room to rest and be fed. London will have to put our good fellows up for a night or two.’

  He looked around him for some sign of support, but there was none visible in the crowd. They stood, large-eyed and lugubrious, with even the usual chatter and sounds of movement dying away.

  Edward raised his head. He understood the people of England had been battered back and forth over the years. Just months ago, they had been expected to cheer and pay their taxes as stout Yorkist folk, with Edward on the throne. Then he had been turned out – and King Henry was there once more, returned to their loving and bemused embrace.

  Edward stared haughtily around him, responding to their scrutiny by puffing out his chest and staring them down. Though he might understand a little resentment, he was damned if he would acknowledge it. London was his city, the capital of his kingdom. They were his subjects. They could swallow that truth and choke on it. He felt his anger lend strength to tired muscles so that he straightened further.

  ‘I think, Richard, that I will not rest after all, not yet. Call out a few score of the men to walk to Westminster with me before they settle down, would you?’

  Richard of Gloucester turned his horse out of the marching ranks and gestured to Lord Rivers as he came abreast. The Woodville earl seemed pleased to be called, though he grew less pleased at every passing moment.

  ‘My brother and I will be going on this evening, my lord,’ Richard said. ‘I leave the army and London in your hands, excepting only … eighty of our better knights to guard His Majesty.’

  ‘I would be honoured to join them,’ Lord Rivers replied. He preferred to remain close to his brother-in-law and was mulish when kept out of the councils between the York brothers. Richard found the man tiresome and it was exactly for that reason that he had brought him up short that day.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I have given you my brother’s command, Lord Rivers. Edward and I will ride on to Westminster, returning later tonight or tomorrow. I imagine there will be a crowning then, perhaps in St Paul’s, where the city can be reminded York has returned – glory be to us, and so on and so on. Now, I am weary, Lord Rivers. Have you understood what I have said to you?’

  ‘I believe I have, my lord,’ Rivers replied, though the muscles in his jaw bunched alarmingly. Richard dismissed the man back to the ranks and returned to his brother, already thinking of the night ahead. He was tired, it was true, but he was also eighteen years old and he could remain awake for two days straight if he had to. He saw Edward yawn hugely, and was not sure his brother would manage quite as well.

  ‘God’s bones, we know where he is now!’ Exeter roared, his voice so loud it was a weapon in itself. ‘He is in London, eating slices of pink beef and murdering King Henry! There is no mystery, Neville! He and his treacherous bastards crept past us because we thought he’d come to challenge or begin a siege. I have never seen such a shit-poor example of battle offered and refused in all my life. I tell you, Neville …’

  Exeter’s whip-crack of a voice choked off as Lord Montagu stepped in between him and Warwick.

  ‘You keep using my family’s name,’ John Neville said. ‘Are you speaking to my brother, Earl Warwick? Or to me? I can’t tell if this familiar tone is just rudeness, or a man who doesn’t know when to hold his tongue. I can do that for you, if you wish.’ He leaned much closer, until Exeter could feel the bristles of the man’s beard against his chin. ‘I can hold that tongue for you.’

  Exeter’s high colour deepened. He squinted at the younger Neville lord, eyeing his scars.

  ‘I am not at fault, my lords,’ he said, leaning back. ‘We missed a chance to break Edward’s neck – aye, and those of his brothers. We had the men, the position. Yet he slips past and leaves us holding our cocks.’ He looked around the room in appeal. Earl Oxford dipped and raised his head deliberately. Montagu and Warwick looked on as if carved of stone, giving him nothing. Even so, Exeter continued, emboldened.

  ‘My lords, I do not cry foul, or treachery, though some will wonder why we did not crush the sons of York between us when we had them here, outnumbered! That will be for a judge and for Parliament to discern, I do not doubt.’ He shot Warwick a glance then, a promise of future malice.

  Oxford cleared his throat to speak.

  ‘Whatever the truth of that, it is clear enough to me now that Exeter should command,’ Oxford said into the silence. ‘He has the rank and the authority over the men. Nor is he … tainted by this disaster. No suspicion falls on to him and therefore …’ Warwick shifted as if he might speak and Earl Oxford held up a warning hand. ‘Therefore he should raise his banners over all the rest. The men will trust a duke and we cannot delay here any longer. In truth, we should already be on the road to London.’

  ‘And would have been, if not for your demand for this extraordinary meeting,’ Warwick replied. For all he recognized it had been his vital hesitation that had allowed the men of York to escape, he would not move an inch for a fool like Exeter, nor his weak-chinned friend.

  ‘I believe I command still, my lords,’ Warwick said. ‘For good or ill. With authority granted by King Henry’s seal and the approval of Parliament. I do not see any power here to remove me from my duties. Am I mistaken? That being so, I have no choice but to go on. Do not mutter at me, Oxford!’ His voice had risen into a sudden bark as the Earl of Oxford made an unwise sound. Warwick glared at him for a moment, until it was clear the man would not voice a complaint.

  ‘Lacking any legal authority to replace me, I must continue to fly my banners.’

  ‘You could step down,’ Exeter said, his eyes co
ld. Warwick shook his head.

  ‘I have given my oath! I cannot break it merely because other men stand in disapproval of my actions! Am I a milkmaid to run in tears from the rebukes of others? No, my lord. I remain in command, with the blessing of King Henry. I cannot lay the burden down and keep my soul. That is all there is – and you may do as you please.’

  ‘You are releasing me from my duty, my oath?’ Exeter said quickly.

  Warwick smiled.

  ‘Oh no, Holland. You gave your word to follow whomever the king placed in command, in peril of your soul. You risk damnation even by raising the idea to me, as if there is some interpretation that will allow you to withdraw. There is not. Is that understood, Holland? Is that perfectly clear, my lord Exeter?’

  Exeter looked again to Oxford for support, but the man kept his head down and refused to look up. Henry Holland’s mouth tightened, his cheeks drawing back in lines.

  ‘You leave me no choice, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘How dare you, Holland!’ Warwick snapped, surprising them all. ‘What I leave you with is not your concern. Your oath is your concern! Do not take that begrudging tone with me! Stand, if you would stand. Leave if you would burn. There is your choice.’

  Warwick waited until the younger man finally lost some of the stubborn resistance in his face. A subtle tension went out of Henry Holland and he bowed from the waist.

  ‘I remain at your command, my lord Warwick,’ he said quietly. To his surprise, Warwick came forward and clapped him on the back, startling them all.

  ‘I am pleased, Henry. Your word is intact, for all our differences. What I have done in error is my concern. That is for me to answer, but I am relieved you did not break your oath and damn yourself.’ Once more he patted the duke on his back, like a favourite hound.

  ‘In truth, I am in agreement,’ Warwick said, surprising Exeter further. ‘We have twenty-four thousand men, all ready to march. London and King Henry are under threat of a usurping house. We should already be on the road, as I said, not risking our souls here. My lords, I give you my oath now, sworn on Mary, the Mother of God, sworn on the honour of my family line. I will stand against York, when we meet again. If I have been in error in the past, I will wash it clean then. That is my word to you, by Christ Our Lord, amen! Amen!’

  The last word was enough of a bellow to make Exeter step back, still caught up in swift-changing emotions that he could hardly follow. He seized on the last of it and brightened.

  ‘To London then?’

  ‘With all we have, my lord,’ Warwick replied, showing his teeth. ‘We will end it there, with the whole world watching.’

  Edward of York pushed open the door to King Henry’s private rooms in Westminster. In the darkness outside, London’s lights gleamed. He and his brother Richard brought a smell of iron and the sound of jingling mail into that quiet space.

  Henry lay pale on his bed, the sheet fallen away from his chest so that they could see blue veins and the lines of his ribs. His hair was wet with perspiration and his eyes were reddened and half open. As the breath of colder air reached him from the outside, the king began to struggle to sit up.

  The noise woke the only other occupant of the room, who had been snoring at the foot of the bed with his legs sprawled and crossed, in the comfort of a wide, stuffed chair. Derry Brewer startled awake and looked blearily at the two men standing by the open door. A shadow crossed his face then and he reached for his stick with hands that had grown heavy-knuckled and gnarled. The king’s spymaster was sixty-three years old and he grunted as he sat up and leaned on his blackthorn.

  Edward crossed the room on light steps, padding in with his brother at his shoulder. Derry watched them come and his eyes were bleak.

  ‘He isn’t well enough to be moved,’ Derry said. He had known his voice would draw their attention, the two sons of York turning on him as wolves on prey. Before either of them could reply, Henry spoke from where he lay, his voice weak and as high as a child’s.

  ‘Cousin York! Thank God you’ve come. I know it will all be well now.’

  Derry raised one hand to his mouth in grief to hear Henry’s trust. The spymaster thought of the blade hidden in his stick as Edward leaned in to take the king’s hand in greeting, showing a pale throat. Derry might have moved, but Richard of Gloucester was watching him still. The young man pressed a stronger hand over his own and moved him away from the king, lifting his weight from the chair as if it was nothing. Derry found himself gripped so tightly he could hardly breathe as he was half walked, half dragged out of the room. The door closed behind him.

  He found his voice was rough with grief.

  ‘You don’t have to kill him,’ he said. ‘You just don’t. Please, son. Put him in a monastery somewhere far off. He won’t trouble you again.’

  ‘Ah,’ Richard said, his voice gentle. ‘You love him.’ He looked aside for a moment, then shrugged. ‘You don’t need to fear for Henry of Lancaster tonight, Master Brewer. We won’t kill him, while his son might land in England any fine morning. My brother and I have come to make an ending, not raise another king on the coast. There’s Earl Warwick too, with his great host. We might need a hostage for safe passage there. No, Master Brewer, Henry has nothing to fear from my brother tonight, or from me. You though – you’re done.’

  Still holding the king’s spymaster in a young man’s hard grip, Richard of Gloucester prodded him down another flight of stairs and out to the empty yard beyond. The Palace of Westminster had enough lamps lit above to lend a golden gleam to part of that square, with the great Abbey lying across from it in darkness.

  Derry looked around at the waiting men-at-arms, standing silently as they watched him with cold indifference. There would be no help for him there. He slumped, leaning on his stick.

  ‘I lost a daughter and a wife when I was very young,’ Derry said, looking up at the clear night sky. ‘And some good friends, son. I hope I’ll see them again.’ For an instant, he turned his single eye on Richard and smiled, looking almost boyish. ‘I remember your father. He was an arrogant whoreson but still, twice the man you are. I hope you get what you deserve, crookback.’

  Richard of Gloucester nodded to his captain, making a sharp gesture. The man stepped in and Derry looked up into the darkness, marvelling at the sheer beauty of the stars above. He made a soft grunt as the man struck him, then sank down, coughing once as he died. The cane fell from his fingers and rolled with a clatter that was the only sound.

  17

  Elizabeth felt a pang of terror at the noise of armoured men approaching. For months, she had suffered with that particular nightmare, risen like a white spark in her chest every time a grocer or a priest came to Sanctuary. Every time she heard a strange voice or a tiny bell rang, a great, dark fear would come that it was Lancaster or some lord, come to slaughter her children and herself. She dreamed of blood, spilling black across the floor.

  She heard the true clatter of knights in iron and sprang awake, her heart thumping in the darkness. There were always one or two monks in the tiny cells of Sanctuary. She had grown to know them all well in the months of confinement. She recognized Brother Paul’s tone and then a yell and a crash that had her reaching for her night robe and fumbling with its belt in the darkness.

  She slept alone and could hear the wet nurse, Jenny, stirring in the next room along the corridor. Her mother, Jacquetta, was already moving about and appeared with a lamp and her hair in a great pile of sleep-creased curls.

  Wordlessly, Elizabeth showed her the long knife she had snatched up. Jacquetta vanished back into her room, returning with a poker from the fireplace. The two women went to the top of the wooden stairs, shushing Jenny when she too came out, pressing her back into her room with their hands. Further along the floor, one of the girls began to wail. The crying would surely wake the old lady who looked after them and she was actually quite deaf, so that when she called out, she woke the rest of the house. Elizabeth bit her lip in fear as she edged to the top
step and crouched to peer down into the tiny entrance hall.

  Brother Paul lay crumpled against the wall, unconscious or dead, she did not know. Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath and then some part of her realized she knew the man standing over him with his back to her. She watched Edward turn in silence, though there had to have been noise.

  Her husband looked up to where she stared down through the banisters and his face split into a great beam and shout. Elizabeth matched him, giving a cry of relief, though she felt as if she might faint and tumble right down the steps. She swayed as she tried to stand and felt her mother’s hands on her waist, guiding her away from the fall.

  Edward came bounding up the stairs, peering at his wife in pride.

  ‘I have woken you,’ he said, laughing. Elizabeth snatched frantically at her thoughts.

  ‘Edward, I don’t … Is it over then?’ she asked. To her confusion, her giant of a husband shook his head, though he still grinned.

  ‘No, love. Though this is a part of it. Yet London is mine at least – and I can take you out of this place. That is enough for tonight, isn’t it? Now where is my son, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I named him Edward,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Jenny! Bring me the baby. And he was baptized in the Abbey.’

  The wet nurse came out in triumph, the bundled prince held high in her arms. To her credit, the young woman looked to Elizabeth first for permission. Elizabeth nodded, pressing down the sense of grievance that her husband had not even embraced her, though he would hold his son.

  Unaware of his wife’s disappointment, Edward raised the boy into the air, staring up at his tiny, crumpled face in delight or awe. He had never seen his son before that moment.

  ‘Light, girl!’ he said to the wet nurse. ‘Bring that lamp closer would you? More light here, that I may see my son. Hello, boy. Edward, Prince of Wales, who will be king of England. By God, Elizabeth, I am glad to see him whole. King Henry is returned to the Tower – and I have my wife and my son.’