Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2)

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I think I spoke the truth before. If swords are drawn, I cannot be certain of the victor. There must be another way, a solution to the problem of York. Between us, we’ll find it. Until the trumpets are blown, my lord. Until that moment, there is still a chance to bring York to heel. If they sound, we will have failed to find it.’

  ‘And if they do sound?’ Somerset asked, though both men knew the answer.

  ‘Then you and I will work to destroy York and anyone who stands with him. We will give our lives to take his, if it comes to it. If diplomacy fails, my lord Somerset, war must follow – and if it does, I will not see York triumph while I live.’ He smiled bitterly then. ‘After all, he would not let either of us remain alive for long.’

  Somerset nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘You know, Derry, when I was a boy, I stole out one summer to visit a country fair, to chase the local girls and drink and have my fortune told. My father never even knew I had slipped away from my room. You must have done the same sort of thing.’

  Derry grinned widely at that, shaking his head.

  ‘I suspect my childhood was a little less … noble, my lord, but go on.’

  ‘I drank too much mead and ale, of course, and I recall fumbling with some lass who insisted on being paid first before she let me lay her down. The night is a blur for the most part, but I remember a gypsy woman with her patterned tent. She read my palm in the darkness, while her tent swayed around me and it was all I could do to keep from vomiting.’

  His eyes glazed in memory, and Derry folded his arms.

  ‘And you were robbed? Or was she the girl in the long grass?’ he prompted.

  ‘Good lord, I wasn’t that drunk. No, she told me Somerset would die at the castle, not on the battlefield, not from a chill or an illness. I hadn’t told her my father’s name, Derry, though she knew it anyway.’

  Derry glanced at the signet ring that adorned the duke’s hand, carrying the crest of his family.

  ‘It is their craft to look for signs, my lord. I’m sure she took your coins for her promises and said much the same thing to the next man.’

  ‘You don’t believe in such things? I have fought in a dozen campaigns since that day and never taken a wound, Derry. Not a scratch. I have never been ill even, while I know a dozen men who died before their time, no, two dozen, sweating out their lives to some scourge of the flesh. Do you comprehend? I have led a charmed life, when others died all around me. And do you know why?’ Somerset leaned very close then, his eyes bright as he took Derry into his confidence. ‘I have never travelled to Windsor, not once in thirty years. It is the king’s own residence, the largest in the country. What other castle could be “the” castle, do you see?’

  Derry laughed suddenly, barking out the sound so that the duke twitched in surprise.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ Derry said, making a wheezing sound in his amusement. ‘You are a man I respect and you have chosen to share this private thing with me. I should not –’ He broke off again, unable to control his amusement.

  Somerset looked offended and his wounded expression left Derry gasping for breath and leaning against a wall for support.

  ‘I was going to say that York will not be the end of me, for all his dislike,’ Somerset went on stiffly. ‘I feared for a time while I was in the Tower. Predictions can be vague things and I thought that could have been the place I would die, but then I was delivered, sent forth once more to serve my king. Nothing else will make me afraid again, not York or Salisbury or … anything.’

  ‘I am sorry, my lord. I should not have laughed,’ Derry said, wiping his eyes and mastering himself. ‘I wish I had some magical talisman, or beggar-woman’s promise to aid me beyond my own wits, I really do. I wish I could know for certain whether the threat was York, or Salisbury, or some other devil I have not yet even noticed, hiding in a dark place.’

  Somerset was far from appeased, the muscles on his jaw standing out.

  ‘There are some with real powers, Derry, whether they come from devils or angels, whether you choose to believe in them or not. I meant to bring you some small reassurance, not to make myself the target of your mockery. I will bid you good night.’ The duke inclined his head and set off, leaving Derry to stare in amusement after him.

  11

  Richard of Warwick reached Ludlow Castle in late April, bringing his brother John and just over twelve hundred men to add to the forces arrayed around that fortress. Six hundred of those with him were prime archers, who knew their worth and walked the streets with cocky self-assurance. In a short time, they had set up archery butts around the castle grounds, practising their skill for all the hours of daylight. The rest were axe and bill men, levied and armed from the incomes of Warwick’s midland and northern estates, called to his service as their feudal lord. To the amusement of York and his father, Warwick had dressed every man in bright red tunics over their mail-shirts, dyed the colour of blood with the madder root. As their commanding officer, he wore the colour himself, inlaid with a white stripe.

  York’s mood had improved on seeing so many added to the forces at Ludlow. He had fretted over weeks of inaction, writing letters and sending messengers, trying to gather supporters while the king regained his strength and prepared for his Great Progress from London. York insisted on celebrating the arrival of Salisbury’s sons with a feast that first night, emptying the fortress cellars of ancient French barrels to make sure every man had a full cup to toast their leaders.

  The following morning, York was to be found snoring in his rooms. Warwick and his brother were less affected, both young men rising at dawn to hunt with their father. They rode out through a vast array of tents and soldiers breaking their fast over small fires. The men stood respectfully in the presence of nobles before settling back down to eat, polish, mend and sharpen. Despite the splitting heads that morning, Warwick’s arrival had increased the tension in the camp. Armies were not gathered in such numbers to sit around in the spring sunshine.

  ‘They make a pretty company, your red men,’ Salisbury called to his son as they rode along a farm track. ‘I think in the field, our enemies will fall back from their glory alone.’

  Warwick rolled his eyes for the benefit of his brother John. Both of Salisbury’s sons were enjoying being out that morning. The sun was up and they were in good health, with an army at their beck and call.

  ‘I want them to feel they are one band, one battle of men, father. The tunics will mean they can see each other on the field, know friend from enemy with just a glance. You’ll see, if it comes to it.’

  Salisbury gave a derisive sniff, though his pride in his son was obvious to both of them.

  ‘I imagine an archer would enjoy such gaudy targets as well,’ Salisbury said.

  ‘My bowmen wear the same red,’ Warwick replied. ‘They’ll answer any mockery with shafts of their own. It cost me a fortune in dyes and broadcloth, but they walk taller in the one colour, father, I swear it.’

  The three Neville men rode beyond the sentries and scouts around York’s castle, though not so far that they could not have raced back if they were spotted and hailed by some enemy. The roads around Ludlow were empty of thieves and brigands that year, moved on to towns that did not have a host of armed men camped on their doorsteps. Yet there were always threats. London was more than a hundred miles away – another country almost, for its distance from Ludlow. Yet two of the Nevilles had been present for the Percy attack on John’s wedding, and only a fool would have ridden without care and caution.

  Salisbury reined in at a small wooden bridge across a stream, beckoning to Richard and John so that they came close enough for him to speak quietly. The day was growing warm, and red and green dragonflies darted above the water, drawing the eye as they snapped insects out of the air.

  ‘We are alone here,’ Salisbury said, looking around him, ‘and there may not be another time to talk as one family.’

  His two sons glanced at each other, pleased to be included in t
heir father’s plans.

  ‘Our friend York no longer champs at the bit. I think he can be brought close to King Henry with his men, but he still hopes for some resolution without a drop of blood being shed.’

  ‘And you, father?’ John asked. At twenty-four, he was the shortest of them, dark-haired and slim at the waist, though his shoulders were wide. At home, his wife, Maud, was heavy with their first child. John had come to Ludlow for one reason and his cold tone made it clear he did not enjoy hearing of any softening of intent.

  ‘Be at peace, John. You know better than to doubt me. Was I not there? I know what we owe the Percy family. The old man will be at the king’s side and at least one of his sons with him. I expect he has left his eldest boy at Alnwick. Egremont will surely ride with his father – the man we want most of all, though I do not doubt Earl Percy gave the order.’

  ‘What if York is intent on peace though?’ John said. ‘I have come a long way from home, father. I’ve left my family and estates for this and I’ve sworn to see the Percy dogs cut down. I won’t sit still while York and Lancaster are reconciled, with new oaths and toasts drunk to their health.’

  ‘Be careful, John,’ Warwick said softly. His brother was a mere knight and had brought no more than six retainers with him. The armies of his elder brother and father gave him more authority than he could claim on his own, though his grievance was greater. Perhaps because of that, John Neville shot his brother a look of anger before their father spoke again.

  ‘We have two thousand Neville men to York’s one. It is my intention to make an example of the enemies of our house and I will not be put off that path by anyone. Is that clear enough for you, John? Let York worry about the Duke of Somerset whispering in the king’s ear. Our concern is with the Percy lords. If they ride north with the king, they’ll not survive our meeting. My oath on that.’

  Salisbury held out his hand and both his sons gripped it in turn, sealing the agreement between them.

  ‘We three are Neville men,’ Salisbury said proudly. ‘There are some who have yet to learn what it means to cross that name, but they will, I promise you both. They’ll learn, even if King Henry himself stands in our way.’

  He clapped first Richard, then John on the shoulders, reaching out to them while their horses stamped and nipped at one another.

  ‘Now beat the bushes and find some game for your old father to stick a spear through. We should bring something back to Ludlow. It’ll be good practice for you both. If we are to flush out the Percys, we’ll need to march soon, to await the king on his path north.’

  Margaret stood before her husband, wiping an oily cloth over his shoulder pauldrons so that they would shine in the spring sunlight. They were alone, though armed men and horses were all around the Palace of Westminster, gathering in hundreds of small groups. King Henry’s half-brother, Jasper Tudor, had come in the week before, bringing news of an army encamped in the north-west, around the castle of Ludlow. That new information had lent an urgency to the proceedings that had been missing before. There were still many senior men who refused to believe York or Salisbury would raise banners against the king, but the procession had begun to resemble an army making ready to move, with more and more lords choosing their best men to stand with them.

  ‘You will keep our son safe in Windsor, Margaret,’ Henry said, looking down at her, ‘no matter what lies ahead.’

  ‘I would prefer you to wait another month, two. You grow stronger every day that passes, and there is still the garrison at Calais. If you called them back, they would surely draw the teeth from the Plantagenet, whatever he plans.’

  Henry chuckled, shaking his head.

  ‘And leave the Calais gates open? I have lost enough of France without stripping my last fortress there. I have two thousand men, Margaret – and I am the king of England, protected by God and the law. Please, we have talked and talked. I will take the Great North Road to Leicester. I will ride and be seen – and those lords of mine who still waver will be abashed. The Duke of Norfolk has not responded to me. Exeter is still claiming illness. God’s wounds, I need to be seen, Margaret, just as you’ve said so many times. When I have revealed the shining ranks of all those who stand with me, then I will declare York and Salisbury traitors. I will put the mark of Cain on their heads and they will find what support remains to them vanishing like frost in summer.’

  Margaret touched the cloth to his brow, wiping away a smudge.

  ‘I do not like to hear you curse, Henry. You did not before, that I remember.’

  ‘I was a different man,’ Henry said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

  She looked up into his eyes and saw the fear there, almost hidden.

  ‘I was drowned, Margaret, fat with water and unable to cry out. I would not wish such a fate on any man, no matter what his sins.’

  ‘You are stronger now,’ Margaret said. ‘You must not talk of it.’

  ‘I am frightened to,’ he murmured. ‘I feel it in me, this weakness, as if I have been allowed to stand in the sun for just a time, knowing I must go back. It is like fighting the sea, Margaret, too vast and green and cold. I build … walls and still it rushes in, clutching at me.’

  Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and Margaret wiped his skin dry. Her husband shuddered, opening his eyes once more and forcing a smile.

  ‘But I will not let it through, I promise you. I will build a fortress to hold it back. Now, if you have finished polishing me like a trumpet, I should go and mount. I have a long road ahead before I rest tonight.’ He reached down suddenly and kissed her, feeling her lips cold under his. ‘There! That will keep me warm,’ he said, smiling. ‘Make little Edward safe, Margaret. England will be his to rule when I am gone. But she is mine today.’

  York led the column from Ludlow, riding with his son Edward at the head of a procession of trudging men who talked and laughed as they took minor paths and then reached the great Roman road of Ermine Street, still laid with flat stones as it ran north and south, almost the length of the country. On such a surface, they could match the pace of the old legions, making twenty miles a day with ease. Three thousand men ate far more than they could find at roadside inns, though they stripped those bare to the walls as they reached them. York had spent fortunes from his treasury on the supply train following behind the marching men and horses, so that whenever they stopped, a host of retainers would light fires and set stews and salted meat to bubbling for the appetites of weary men.

  They reached Royston first, then Ware the following day, where York halted the column to rest. Salisbury and his sons rode into the village to find rooms, while York stayed for a time to oversee the camp, giving praise to his captains and observing their spirits.

  The three Neville men made a tight group as they gave their horses to a stable lad and headed inside to the only tavern.

  ‘How soon before we reach the king’s Progress?’ John Neville asked his father. ‘Do we even know the route they will take?’

  ‘We’re not out hunting pheasant,’ Salisbury replied. ‘When he leaves London, the king will come up the Great North Road, with all his lords and judges. He will not be hard to find. The only question is what York will do when he has no other choice but to bear arms against the king.’

  ‘You think it is so certain?’ Warwick asked. The taproom of the tavern was empty, but he still kept his voice low.

  ‘I do not think those around the king will ever let York or me come back into the fold. They fear him – and they fear us. The Percys will not allow peace, lad. The old man is scenting the wind at this very moment, straining for his last chance to break the Nevilles. And I welcome it. Peace is nothing in the face of that.’

  ‘I do not think my lord York is ready for battle,’ Warwick said. ‘He seems in earnest, to me, with all his talk of healing wounds.’

  Salisbury shook his head, sipping a tankard of ale and smacking his lips in appreciation.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he said, softly.

  The
green fields and farms of Kilburn stretched all around the royal camp. Beyond the city of London, King Henry had ordered a halt and courts to be set up for three hours across noon. His two dozen judges had heard a number of cases in that time, freeing six men who had languished in prison for months, fining more than thirty and ordering the execution of eleven more. Justice might have taken an age to reach the town of Kilburn, but once it had arrived, it was swift and sure. King Henry left scaffolds being erected behind him, passing cheering crowds come out to catch a glimpse of the royal party dispensing justice.

  The mood among the two thousand was that of a celebration, with feats of arms and riding performed for the king’s pleasure by those who hoped for some recognition. Thomas, Lord Egremont, was the victor of two demonstration bouts, giving such buffets to those who stood against him that they had to be tied to their horses later on, or fall. While the trials went on, the local towns provided ale, bread and meat, for which they were paid in silver.

  The first day of the Progress had gone well and King Henry’s mood was light as he ordered his heralds to turn off the road and seek lodgings around the town of Watford for the night. By the time darkness fell, he was settled in a local manor house, enjoying the company of his half-brother Jasper Tudor as well as Earl Percy and Egremont. Henry found he had drunk a little too much of good local mead and, though his doctors hovered within call, he felt strong, pleased enough at the prospect of another dozen days like the first before he reached Leicester.

  He retired late, knowing he would feel it the following morning, as the Royal Progress moved on to St Albans. He would pause and pray in the abbey there, at the oldest Christian shrine in the country. He had been told Abbot Whethamstede had been one of those who came to Windsor to poke and prod him while he had been senseless. It gave Henry some small pleasure to consider greeting the abbot on his feet, a man who had known him only on his back. Before he slept, he imagined taking the abbot’s hand in a strong grip and seeing him kneel to the king of England and his most loyal lords.