They were all astonished when a solitary redheaded figure on a very tired pony rode in through the gate, paused to look around and then spurred his pony over to where Peter and Ned stood in conversation, and said, “Hullo, Father, Master Crowham. I’ve come to join you after all.”
“What?” Peter stared at him in horror. “Nicky, what are you doing here? How did you get here? Your mother never gave you permission. I know she didn’t!”
“No, I slipped out at night and just rode here. Are you setting off today? Can I have something to eat before we go? I’m awfully hungry.”
“You must be tired, too,” Ned said. “Can you face a day’s riding after a night with no sleep? We’re going north to join William Berkeley, Earl of Nottingham. I’ve land in his earldom and he’s my natural leader if there’s war in the Midlands. We’ll find you something else to ride, because even if you can keep awake all day, you can’t ask the same of your pony.”
“Ned! What are you talking about? He must eat and rest and then go straight home!” Peter said indignantly. “Haven’t you got some older man here, who isn’t going with us, who could take him back? Nicky, how dare you behave like this? What your mother and your grandfather will say I dread to think. Come. We must speak to Mistress Crowham and—”
“He’d certainly better snatch some food,” Ned said. “We shan’t be riding for half an hour or so. There’s time.”
“What are you talking about? We’re not taking Nicky!”
“And I don’t want to go home. Grandfather will be angry.”
“You’ll see angrier men on a battlefield! I told you as much before! Why didn’t you listen?” Peter thundered. “Ned, he’s not to come. I can’t understand why you seem willing to take him!”
“You may understand presently,” said Ned, and to Peter’s astonishment, that curious, closed expression which he had sometimes noticed before on Ned’s face, when some matter of state was being discussed, was there again. His friend’s blue eyes were blank and even chilly. “Oh, yes.” He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I have a reason. Nicky could be very useful. I’ll do my best to see he comes to no harm. But there are other boys of his age coming with us. A lad should start learning men’s business as soon as he’s old enough to understand it. We’ll take him along.”
Richard came back in the evening on Patches, leading Nicky’s pony, but with an empty saddle.
“They’d already left Crowham,” he said as soon as he came into the hall. “They’d ridden away long before I got there. The pony was tired and they wanted to go fast, so they’d given Nicky something else to ride. Isabel told me. I hadn’t a hope of catching up. But he’ll be all right! The boys stay behind to guard the baggage when an army goes into the field. Nicky will come back all right and he’ll find me waiting for him.”
The unspoken message was but Peter may not come back. Richard’s face, under his snowy hair, was drawn with worry but not for Nicky. Liza on the other hand was terrified for them both and fear made her flare into anger. “Why didn’t Peter send him home? Why?”
“God knows. I don’t,” said Richard, sitting down on the nearest seat and presenting his dusty boots to be removed. Liza brushed tears from her eyes and helped him off with them. If Peter were to walk in at that moment, she didn’t know whether she would run to him or throw something at him. What if she lost both husband and child?
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, she was seized with a need to get away from Allerbrook. It was home now, had been for many years, but without Peter it lacked human sympathy. She needed her kinfolk. She wanted to go to Dunster and be with her own family again, with people who would sympathise. She knew Richard was afraid for his son and grandson, but she knew, too, that he would never seek comfort, or give it, either, and she was frightened as well and could have done with comforting.
As she returned to the hall, Richard expressed a wish for some cider. Liza fetched it, carrying the tankard to him with a smile of deceptive sweetness. After all, if she were to visit Dunster, she would need her father-in-law’s permission.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE RED DRAGON
“No!” said Peter. “I can’t believe what you’re saying, Ned. I’ve met Gloucester—King Richard. It’s just rumour, wicked tattle, and it’s no reason to…what you want us to do is treachery, don’t you understand? I can’t and I won’t. Nor will Jarvis.”
“Jarvis Hannacombe, I have no doubt, will do what you bid him.”
“Then I shall bid him stay with me and fight on the side of the king of England and the house of York. I’ll take him and Nicky and leave this inn at once. We’ll find the Earl of Nottingham and—”
“Inform him that there’s a little detachment of forty men under Sir Edward Crowham, occupying the Sign of the Azure Dove outside Leicester, and they intend to slip off to join Henry Tudor tomorrow morning? I’m sorry, Peter, but I think not.”
“You…!” Peter looked about him. They were outside in the innyard, where Ned had brought him, saying that he wanted a private word. The rest of the company, two score or so strong, were inside the inn, which they had virtually commandeered, eating a late supper and drinking ale. The only guests at the inn who were not part of Crowham’s following were a small party of tumblers, who were seizing the chance to earn a few pence for entertaining the rest. The light was fading and candles gleamed within the hostelry. Beyond the stone arch of the gateway the dusty road was empty, and opposite were quiet meadows.
They were still some miles short of Leicester, where the king and his lords were, but Ned had halted them here because he said the men must be fresh for the morning. He had sent just two galloping ahead to Leicester and they had returned to say that the royal army would march westward from the city in the morning to meet Henry Tudor, who had advanced through Wales.
As Peter had at first understood it, William Berkeley, Earl of Nottingham, was with the king and his was the banner Ned proposed to follow. They could cut across country tomorrow and join him during the march. Baldwin Sweetwater and his son, John, who had overtaken them on the way, had been pushing on faster, and were probably with him in Leicester already.
But now…
“I don’t think you’ve been listening to me,” said Crowham. “Do you think I do this lightly? Don’t you know me better than that?”
“I’ve known you, or so I thought, since I was ten and now I feel I’ve never really known you at all!”
“King Richard,” said Ned, in the very patient voice of one who has tried to make the same point fifty times, without success, “or the Duke of Gloucester as I prefer still to call him, has murdered his brother’s sons to keep himself safe on his throne. He was supposed to be the Protector of the Realm, but he has had the boy who should have been King Edward the Fifth assassinated and the younger brother, too. He put them in the Tower over two years ago and they haven’t been seen since. On Exmoor you may hear news but you’re still off the main track and you never hear all of it. Every London tavern has seen grown men shed tears, thinking of the fate of those two lads.”
“I don’t believe it. I will not believe it!” Peter struggled for words, remembering the tired, prematurely aged face of the man to whom he had given his horse at Tewkesbury, and the smile in Gloucester’s hazel eyes as he’d handed over the deeds which had created Allerbrook’s prosperity. “I understood why he had to take the throne—but this! I can’t believe it. He was devoted to his brother King Edward, and the princes were—are—Edward’s sons! His motto was loyalty!”
“Not any longer, I think,” said Ned.
“Well, I shall stay loyal! I tell you this, we Lanyons owe him too much to abandon him for a…a…rumour.”
“It’s more than a rumour. Where are those boys? No one has heard or seen them for two years. And Richard, they say, sleeps ill at night.”
“I daresay, with filthy slanders being spoken about him and his own troubles. We heard that his wife and his son had both died. That’s enough to keep anyone awak
e at night.”
“The elder boy, Prince Edward,” said Ned, “had good reason to hate his uncle Gloucester. After the old king died, the Woodvilles tried to snatch power and oversee the boy’s crowning. Once the crown was on young Edward’s head, the Protectorship would legally have lapsed, though a new one would have had to be set up until the lad was of age. The Woodvilles by all accounts meant to make sure that the new Protector was one of themselves, and not Gloucester. To stop that, Gloucester beheaded the boy’s Woodville uncle, Anthony Lord Rivers, because he was the head of the Woodville family. No doubt he thought he was doing the right thing, but Rivers had been the prince’s guardian and there was affection between them. I’ve been to court, close to the heart of things.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve heard all this, as well!” Peter protested. “I understood why Gloucester took the throne. If the prince became king, he probably wouldn’t have left his uncle Gloucester alive for long. I realise that! But he didn’t become king, did he?”
“You haven’t thought it out properly. The boys would grow up—no doubt the younger one would have backed up his brother—and supporters would inevitably gather round them. That could start another civil war. I daresay,” said Ned coolly, “that Gloucester felt he had no choice but to rid himself of them. In his place, I might even have done the same. But I’m not in his place and I don’t greatly care for the murder of young lads who can’t protect themselves.”
“And I can’t believe it, not of the Gloucester I knew.”
“Really? He and King Edward certainly got rid of old King Henry,” said Ned. “And of their own brother Clarence, I suspect. None of those were young boys, of course, but they were all helpless prisoners and if you ask me, King Henry was weak in the head. King Richard is much more used to such things than you are. You’re only used to killing pigs.”
“I was at Tewkesbury,” said Peter firmly. “And I intend to be at this battle and not on the side of Henry Tudor.”
“You will fight for Henry Tudor,” said Ned, and now there was nothing at all left of the Ned Crowham who had been Peter’s schoolfellow. A plump, joke-loving, layabed chrysalis had cracked open and out of it had stepped a lethal, subtle dragonfly. “You will,” he said, “because if you do not, you may never see your son Nicholas again.”
“What? Are you out of your mind, man? What do you mean, I may never see Nicholas again? He’s here in the inn. What the devil are you talking about?”
“A number of my men have a regard for you—I’ve noticed it. If you go to Leicester to join William Berkeley and Gloucester—”
“The king!” said Peter savagely.
“Berkeley and Gloucester, some of them might slip off, as well. Also, you’d deliver a warning and the rest of us might be intercepted. I won’t have it, Peter. I won’t see swords denied to Tudor and extra soldiers going to Gloucester’s side. They would strengthen the hand of a murderer, and Tudor has need of swords—and archers and axemen. His forces are too small, even though the Earl of Oxford has joined him now. His stepfather Thomas Stanley may decide to back him up, but Richard is holding one of Stanley’s sons as hostage. It’s plain enough that he doesn’t at all mind making war on mere boys!”
“Neither do you, by the sound of it! What did you mean about Nicky? Tell me!”
“If he prevails,” said Ned, ignoring this, “Henry Tudor has sworn to marry the Princess Elizabeth of York—the princes’ sister. I suppose you didn’t know that. That will unite his line to that of King Edward. York and Lancaster will lie down together in peace at last—literally.”
Ned smiled his old familiar smile, now horribly out of place. “Nicky is no longer in the inn,” he said. “I had him removed an hour ago. You will not know where he is until the battle is over. When it is, whatever the outcome, provided you accompany me to Tudor’s camp, he’ll be sent home. He’ll be safe, even if we are not. But you must buy his freedom by lending your sword arm to the Red Dragon.”
“To the what?”
“The Tudor’s standard is a red dragon. If you refuse to fight beneath it…”
“You…you…” Peter could not think of any epithet which did justice to this. “You talk of young boys being murdered or held hostage by Richard, but in almost the same breath you threaten to kill Nicky! Nicky’s a young boy—he’s only thirteen! He—”
“I’m not going to kill him! Don’t be a fool. I own ships. Three of them, to be precise. They ply in and out of Dorset, where I also have land. If you fail me, Nicky will be taken to Dorset and sent to sea as a ship’s boy. He may flourish or he may not, but it’s no easy life for a lad fresh from loving parents, on a peaceful farm. My people in Nottingham have had their orders and will see that Nicky is taken to Dorset or sent home in accordance with my wishes—and your behaviour. Whether I live or die, and whether you live or die. Our fates will make no difference.”
Peter’s sword was at his side. He drew it instinctively, and then saw that after all, he and Ned were not quite alone in the innyard. Four figures came out of the shadows by the stable and seized hold of him.
“No, Peter,” Ned said. “You will not harm me. You will sleep tonight on a wide pallet that these trusty fellows will share with you. If you stir, so will they. They are Crowham men. I’ve known them all my life and they’re the best of human watchdogs. They will see that you don’t come near me. They won’t stop you from slipping out of the inn. They won’t even stop you from collecting Jarvis and taking him with you. But if you do, you know what will happen.”
The curse that Peter now pronounced on Ned was comprehensive, and most men would have flinched from it. Many would have stepped backward, crossing themselves or making the sign against the Evil Eye. Ned Crowham did not move. “I mean it,” he said. To his men, he said, “Watch him. You know what to do.” With that, he turned away and walked back into the inn.
“Now, better just come along and take some supper and get some sleep,” said one of the watchdogs amiably. He had a Somerset voice, burring and good-natured, tending to turn s’s into z’s. His advice actually sounded like take zome zupper and get zome zleep. It was an accent Peter had heard all his life; indeed, it was his own, though his was not so marked. To hear it under these circumstances was like seeing Dunkery Beacon turned upside down and balanced on its summit.
But there was Nicky. His son and Liza’s and the only son that Allerbrook had. He went into the inn.
It was very difficult to believe that this was happening. What on earth, Peter asked himself despairingly, was he doing here, marching among the foot soldiers behind the stars and streams of the Earl of Oxford’s banner, about to fight against Richard of Gloucester, for Henry Tudor? How had he ever been dragged into such a position?
Because Nicky, confound him, had never learned to do as he was bid, not even under the heavy hand of his grandfather. Because Nicky had run away to join the army and was now Ned’s captive and the lever by which Peter was to be forced to fight where Ned wished.
It was the second morning after the confrontation at the inn. Ned had marched them all out at daybreak, leading them westward across rolling country. Dusk was falling when they reached an encampment, where cooking fires burned and there were tents with banners flying above them. The stars and streams of Oxford flew over one tent. Over another, and the sight of it sent a thrill of sheer horror through Peter, was a scarlet dragon. To Peter, it was the enemy, the banner of Treason. And willy-nilly, Ned was leading him and Jarvis to it.
Jarvis understood the situation, but was bemused by it. “This b’ain’t no way for a friend to treat a friend,” he had said as they rode. “Nicky bein’ made a prisoner, and by Crowham. That b’ain’t right.”
“No, Jarvis, it b’ain’t right at all,” Peter said. “But it’s happening.”
“I’m with you, sir, wherever you go, whoever you fight for, but if we all come out of this, maybe Master Crowham and me’ll have a reckoning one of these days.”
“I might get in first,” said Pete
r grimly.
But the fighting was still to come, and he had been forced, so far, to do Ned’s will. At the camp, Ned had gone to present himself at the Tudor’s tent and presently Henry Tudor himself came out to inspect the reinforcements Ned had brought.
Peter, seeing him close to, was startled. Tudor, although he was wearing a breastplate and a sword, didn’t look even remotely like a warrior. He was certainly nothing like Richard of Gloucester, who, though not big, was tough and muscular.
Gloucester had had a determined air, too; there had been resolution in that careworn face. Henry had the face of a conscientious clerk and the beginnings of a scholar’s stoop and looked somewhat bewildered, as though he, as well as Peter, were wondering how in the world he had got here. He thanked Ned Crowham for bringing him forty more men, and his thanks were so heartfelt that they verged on the undignified.
“We’ve got to fight for him?” Jarvis whispered in Peter’s ear.
“Looks like it. Be quiet,” Peter growled in reply.
They had been assigned to the Earl of Oxford, whose name was John de Vere. Peter was a competent archer but Oxford had enough archers, apparently. Peter had retained his sword, but his bow had been given to someone else and in its place he had been presented with a fearsome weapon called a poleaxe. It was long, like a pike, and sharply pointed, and a few inches from the point a blade, savagely sharp and with an edge six inches long, jutted out from one side. A smaller but equally disagreeable blade with teeth like a saw jutted out from the opposite side.
Henry had a mounted escort on good chargers but ponies weren’t wanted, and he had been able to leave Plume in safety. Now he and Jarvis and Ned’s other men were marching with Oxford.
Ahead of them was a hill, which the man beside him had said was called Ambien Hill. It was occupied now by the king’s army and Oxford was leading them toward it. He had sent archers on ahead and already their shafts were flying toward the foe, who were retaliating. Suddenly a cannon boomed. Cannonballs crashed into their midst and a crossbow bolt struck the man who had told Peter the name of Ambien Hill. His blood, hot and stinking, splashed up into Peter’s face and screaming broke out all around him. Cursing, sidestepping, he clutched his poleaxe more tightly and felt the sweat of fear on his brow and temples and running down his spine.
The House of Lanyon Page 35