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

by Conn Iggulden

  At Warwick’s side, Captain Trollope was grinning merrily, already drunk on the ale and mead they had found in the first tavern on the coast that morning. The Calais men had come forward quickly enough then to roll the barrels along the street as they left the sea at their backs.

  ‘No one bets against him, any longer,’ Trollope said, raising his mug and clinking it against Warwick’s. ‘Your health, my lord. I won a fair bit at first, but now? Not even when he takes on three or four.’

  The last of the struggling knights saw an opportunity to grip the leg of the young earl. He dived at it, only to find himself lifted entirely into the air and dumped with a crash of metal that left him stunned. His hands waved feebly, like a beetle turned on to its back. The crowd of soldiers shouted their appreciation and Warwick had to smile as March came staggering over to slump with a crash on to the grass beside him. He was panting, heat coming off him in waves as if they sat too close to an oven. Warwick saw Sir Robert and Jameson rise from their place in the circle of torches to join their young charge. He signalled for fresh flagons of ale for all three.

  York’s son wrestled with his helmet and complained with a muffled voice that the thing had buckled. He brought more and more strength to bear on it until the metal squeaked and something snapped, revealing his flushed face and a mane of wild black hair.

  ‘By God, I thought that would never come off! I’ll need to have the armourer look it over before I wear it again. Did you see, Richard? Captain Trollope? Ah, Sir Robert! Sit by me, if you would. Did you see that last one? I could have thrown him over a barn. He almost had my leg though, if he’d been strong enough to lift it.’

  Warwick could smell ale on the earl’s breath, sweet and strong, as he panted. He passed a full flagon into the armoured hands, watching with amusement as Edward sank it to the dregs and then folded his lips in to catch the froth. It was odd to look up at a man when they were both sitting. Since his last burst of growth, Edward had begun to carry a weight of muscle that made experienced warriors want to look at their feet in his presence. Combined with his youth, it might have made him terrifying, if not for his good nature. Trollope had compared him more than once to one of the Calais mastiffs – huge dogs brought over from England as a breeding line a century or so before. The massive beasts had no malice in them, perhaps because no other dog could make them afraid.

  While Warwick fretted over the letters from his father that had called him home, York’s eldest son seemed to think it all a grand adventure, rooted in his desire to see his father and mother once again. Warwick blinked as March gave out a great belch, wondering if he should perhaps remind him that the manners of a garrison might not do in courtly circles. Warwick shook his head with a wry smile. At thirty, he was not Edward’s father, nor the father of any young man, though he might have wished it so. He had two daughters in the care of his wife and when he looked at York’s great plough-horse of a son, it was hard not to feel a twinge of regret. He put the sadness aside. There was time yet to breed a clutch of boys and, in truth, Edward was more like a younger brother, looking to Warwick for approval in everything he did.

  Warwick and Captain Trollope exchanged an amused glance as the earl downed another two flagons as large as the first, slopping beer down his chin and chest.

  ‘We’ll be up and marching early, Edward,’ Warwick said, despite his better judgement. ‘You’ll be hard-pressed to keep your seat with so much ale in you.’

  ‘I have a rare thirst, is all,’ he replied, signalling for a fourth to be brought to him. ‘It dries the throat to be heaving men into the air.’

  Warwick chuckled, giving up. From experience, he knew the next day would find the earl groaning and demanding to know why they hadn’t stopped him, though the truth was that he was never easy to stop, in anything he chose to do. For all Edward’s good cheer, he had a temper well bridled and checked in him. Men sensed it as they edged away from his presence. Like a Calais mastiff, no one with any sense ever wanted to see that temper unleashed.

  To Warwick’s surprise, Edward turned his fourth flagon over on the grass and waved away the servant who would have refilled it yet again.

  ‘Very well, enough. My senses swim and I will not be the laggard who holds us back tomorrow. How many days to Ludlow, before I see my father?’

  ‘Eight or ten, depending on the ground,’ Warwick replied. ‘The roads are good and we can make twenty miles a day, more if we cut west past London.’

  ‘It will be eight, then,’ the young man said, closing his eyes for a moment as the ale made him dizzy. ‘My father needs these men and I will stand with him. I’ll set the pace, Warwick. You’ll just have to match me.’

  Warwick accepted the boast without comment, knowing March was more than capable of making good on it. The archivists at Calais had explained what Attainder meant. The threat to the house of York could be made to encompass the Earl of March as much as his father. The estates and incomes Edward already owned could be taken, as well as the more grievous wound of being denied the name of York and the dukedom he hoped to inherit.

  Captain Trollope shifted, easing legs grown stiff as he sat. At fifty years of age, he felt old and about as moss-covered as a mountain compared to Warwick and the son of York. Yet the two young men had brought him home to England and he was intensely grateful for it.

  ‘I pray, my lords, that this Attainder can be struck down without recourse to arms. We heard of St Albans, even in France, how York saved the king from his dark counsellors, wrenching him from their grip and bringing him to the abbey for sanctuary. It was a noble deed. The king’s father would have loved the man who saved his son, I do not doubt it.’

  ‘You knew King Harry?’ Warwick said, raising his eyebrows.

  The captain shook his head.

  ‘I was but a boy when he died, my lord, though I wish I had. There was never so fine a man as old King Hal, who won France for us.’

  ‘Though men like Somerset and Suffolk lost it, just as surely,’ Warwick replied. ‘The truth is as I have told you. This King Henry is just a boy, for all he wears a man’s frame. He is surrounded by courtiers and lords who act in his name, each one a king as it pleases him. My father Salisbury saw the truth of it when he broke Percy and Somerset. Now they have grown bold once again, coxcombs teased and plucked upright by a French queen.’

  Captain Trollope flushed and looked away rather than reply. In normal times, Queen Margaret was held beyond all blame or censure, considered to be far above the sordid manoeuvres of the lords and courtiers of England. Even the suggestion of a criticism made the captain uncomfortable. Before Warwick could smooth his ruffled sensibilities, Edward spoke. After so much ale, his voice was too loud, though he did not open his eyes.

  ‘If Attainders are to be issued, it should be against Percy, Egremont and Somerset. Our fathers took the heads of serpents, but their sons have replaced them. Better to have burned those names from the Rolls, so they could not rise again. I will not make that mistake, when this is done.’ He opened his eyes then, red-rimmed and glaring at the men around him. ‘My father saved the king and will again, but he showed mercy to houses that should have been attainted and broken. I will not.’

  A moment of silence followed and Warwick pressed his lips tight, though the young man’s arrogant speech irritated him sorely. To his surprise, it was Captain Trollope who answered.

  ‘The Englishmen of Calais will stand with you, my lords. We have given that oath. Not against the king of course, which would be its own treason, but certainly against those who use his name.’

  Warwick saw the concern in the older man, overwhelmed by all the talk of politics and noble houses. Nothing was as simple as a clear enemy to be faced and crushed.

  ‘King Henry will not take the field,’ Warwick said firmly. ‘He is like a child, or a monk, given to prayer and sleep from sunrise to darkness. You need have no fear for your loyalties or your oaths, while King Henry sleeps safe in Kenilworth. All that lies ahead is to meet and va
nquish those who would rule in his name, as you say. We will go to Ludlow and they will come to us. It will be a hard and bloody business, but we’ll be standing when it’s done.’

  ‘We’ll destroy them,’ Edward added, lying back on the ground and yawning. ‘And York will go on. I will remember my friends then – and my enemies.’

  The messenger reached Kenilworth in the middle of the night, rousing the castle and bringing Queen Margaret from her bed. Still in a sleeping robe, she met the young man in the audience hall, standing with her hair bound and her face creased and pink from sleep.

  ‘Your Highness, I have word from Baron Audley. I was told to say the word “Retribution” to you.’

  Despite the tension, Margaret chuckled. She knew only Derry Brewer could have suggested the name of his beloved nag as the password for such a serious business. The messenger looked blankly at her.

  ‘Speak then,’ she said. ‘It will do.’

  The rider was an experienced man. He closed his eyes and recited the words he had been told to memorize rather than risk their interception if they were written down. Unbeknownst to him, another messenger would appear within the hour carrying the same message – Derry’s surety against one of them being lost.

  ‘Your Highness, Salisbury is moving. He has begun to march south to Ludlow. The Queen’s Gallants will stand in his path, preventing him from joining his men to those of York. The whereabouts of Warwick and March are not yet known. Lord Audley asks respectfully that Buckingham, Percy, Egremont and Somerset are informed and the King’s Gallants are made ready to take the field. Beyond that, God’s blessing and good luck.’

  The messenger opened his eyes, sweat streaming from him in relief at having fulfilled his commission.

  ‘Will you return to Lord Audley’s side?’ Margaret asked. The man nodded, standing up straight despite his weariness. ‘Tell him that the Percys and Somerset are with the King’s Gallants by Coventry, armed and ready to march. Buckingham and my husband will take the field with them. Give Audley God’s blessing and wish him all good fortune. That is all. Now, I would see you fed and rested, but time is short. My steward will find something for you to eat as you ride back.’

  ‘You are most gracious, Your Highness,’ the messenger replied wearily, closing his eyes once more as he murmured the message to himself, committing it to memory. He left the room at a half-run, leaving Margaret to bite her lip and consider what she would have to say and do to rouse her husband. Henry was the key to it all and he had not worn armour since St Albans.

  20

  The Queen’s Gallants were a motley group, Baron Audley thought privately. Many of them had been raised from his own county of Cheshire, as well as Shropshire and the surrounding counties, brought out from villages in twos and threes and dozens. Some were mere hedge knights, with no badge or livery beyond the queen’s silver swan pinned to their breasts. Those men at least were trained for battle, poor and ill equipped as they were. The rest were farmhands and smiths, builders and butchers and squires. They had come from all walks of life, with only loyalty to the king and outrage at York in common.

  Derry Brewer was the link between them all, Audley mused, watching the spymaster trotting his bony horse through the camp towards him. Brewer had been the man who’d ridden into villages and set up his recruiting post, calling for loyal men to defend the king and queen. With Wilfred Tanner, it had been Derry who rode out to isolated farms, accepting the indentures of sons and brothers and fathers, anyone who would make their mark and accept a silver badge in return. Audley’s task had been to turn boys and gentlemen squires into soldiers over the previous months. Some of them had been in his care for half a year or more, while the most recent recruits were still unsure which end of a pike they should hold. It made for chaos and as they’d come together over the previous few weeks, Audley had found Brewer to be a useful enough aide. It was just unfortunate that the man’s memories of large-scale battles were all personal, with little sense of the sweep of tactics in the field. Brewer had been a foot soldier as a young man, with no better view of a battle than the ranks afore and behind as he marched. Perhaps for that reason, Derry had refused a formal position in the Gallants, telling Audley that he had too many roles already and could not bear another. The baron smiled to recall the man’s cheek as Brewer reined in at his side.

  ‘They are shaping up well, my lord,’ Derry said, dismounting. ‘I have not seen so many since France. I was told the queen’s arms and mail have reached you. Are you satisfied?’

  ‘No. I will not be satisfied until I see Salisbury’s head on the ground,’ Audley replied. He was aware that many of the men were within earshot and raised his voice to reach them. ‘But they will stand, these Gallants. We have three times the number marching with Salisbury and he does not know what awaits him. I would stake my life on these men.’

  Those who heard him grinned at the veteran commander with his white moustaches and beard, repeating his comments to those around them.

  ‘In truth, I would rather take these men against Ludlow – and York himself,’ Audley went on in a much lower voice. He raised a hand to forestall Derry’s objection before it could begin. ‘Yes, I understand it serves the cause to break Salisbury before he can join hands with York and Warwick. It is the merest common sense. Even so, I chafe. York is the true threat against my king. He is the man they would all see sitting on the throne instead of its rightful occupant. York is the heart of this rebel faction and I would see him punished and attainted. Indeed, I have waited four years to see it.’

  With another commander, Derry might have clapped him on the shoulder, but Audley was a stiff old man, not given to display or intimacy of any kind. Instead, Derry bowed his head.

  ‘You will, my lord, I don’t doubt it. As soon as we have broken Salisbury, we can swing south and join the King’s Gallants. Before the year is out, we’ll pluck the thorn.’

  ‘That is rash, Master Brewer,’ Audley said, shaking his head in reproof. ‘This is no jaunt, no merry march through woodland. Salisbury’s men are long-trained and armed with good iron. If we did not outnumber them by so many, I would not be confident.’

  ‘But we do. And you are,’ Derry said, his eyes twinkling.

  The older man grunted.

  ‘Yes, well. We’ll see. Salisbury can’t reach Ludlow without passing us. Yet the man is cunning, Brewer. I saw his work in the far north and he is no one’s fool. I make it a rule never to count the banners taken until the battle is over. That is all I have to say to you.’

  While the two men talked, the vast army of Queen’s Gallants had formed up in its three main groups, captains and sergeants bullying them into place. To Audley’s eye, it was still ragged work, with too many individuals wandering out of position. Yet the vast force that formed on Blore Heath was at least confident and well fed, nine thousand strong young lads pledged to the queen herself. Their fervour had surprised Derry at first. The badge of her silver swan had begun merely as a device to separate the two armies, as a way of telling them apart. It was too hard to split large forces in the midst of a campaign, and war could call for fast movement and response. Yet the swan badges had been taken up with enthusiasm and pride. The young men of English villages and towns had enjoyed the idea of fighting for a beleaguered queen, taking up her cause as their own. Derry had been forced to deny hundreds asking to wear it, giving them the king’s antelope badge instead.

  Twelve hundred of the Gallants carried good yew bows, each weapon matched to the owner’s height and worth half a year’s wage or more in silver. Derry might have wished for archers like Thomas Woodchurch, but he did not have them. Yet bowmen of lesser quality were to be found in every English hamlet, with archery butts hammered to pieces each Sunday. The Gallant archers could fill the sky with shafts when the time came, then again and again, as fast as a breath. Some seven thousand more wore mail and carried axes or iron maces: clubs to smash helmets and heavy blades to kill men once they were down. At the rear, eight hundre
d knights rode at stately pace. Derry had wanted three or four times that number, but warhorses were a fortune on the hoof and only wealthy men rode to battle. It had cost the king and queen huge sums to provide horses for the hedge knights – men with the skills who could not afford the accoutrements of war. Derry had last looked over the receipts a year before and he refused to do so again, while a torrent of silver still poured out of the royal treasury. Mail-shirts and helmets on their own were ruinously expensive. It made sweat break out on his skin even to think of the costs, but there could be no half-measures. York’s wealth was legendary and he would certainly not stint when it came to supplying his men.

  Audley signalled to his servants and they brought his mounting step and his horse, a dark brown gelding that snorted and stamped. Derry was grateful the animal was considerably younger than its owner as he mounted his own, delighted once again to sit in the saddle of Retribution.

  ‘I have chosen this spot with care, Master Brewer,’ Audley called. ‘Blore Heath lies in Salisbury’s path to Ludlow. You see ahead there? Half a mile or so, that hill with its strip of oak trees and gorse? We will wait in the shadow of that great hedge and, when we come out, we will surround Salisbury’s three thousand and cut them to pieces.’

  ‘That sounds a little rash, my lord,’ Derry replied.

  Audley raised his eyes to the pale autumn sky.

  ‘Even so. I have waited for this for a long time. The king’s honour has been tainted by traitors, forced to retreat to Kenilworth when all England is his. I am content to be his mace, Master Brewer, his instrument. God willing, we will stop them here.’ The baron dug in his heels, choosing to ride alongside the marching Gallants and be seen.

  At Ludlow Castle, York stared over the battlements, looking north to where he hoped to glimpse Salisbury’s army marching in his support. To the west, he could hear the rushing River Teme, winding round the castle, with the village and bridge of Ludford crossing it to the south. He turned a full circle, breathing deeply of the damp air and trying to find peace. The castle had been in an uproar ever since the letters from Salisbury had come in. York grasped the stones hard enough to hurt as he considered the betrayal of his house and name. King Henry would have had no hand in it, he was certain of that. It could only be the French queen who sat rubbing silk threads and making them all dance. He had known she was his enemy ever since she had stolen the king and hidden him away in Kenilworth. That was an old, remembered rage, a move so rash that he could never have predicted it. It could only be her influence that gave weaker men the nerve to act against him. Attainder! The very word was a poison, a threat he must answer without mercy, no matter who had first begun the path. The cool breezes of evening helped his temper, but he would not hold back as he had done at St Albans. If the king fell into his hands once again, he told himself, his sword would speak for him, answering with a single blow all those who dared to threaten his name and his house. York could still feel the horror that had stolen upon him as his scribes had dug out their records and described the terrible reach of that single document, sealed by the king. The end of a royal line, the end of a king’s great-grandson, never mind the titles York would not be able to pass on.