‘I had not thought to see Henry himself come against me,’ he said. ‘However they have done it, I do not know if the men will stand, not now.’ The anguish felt by that small group on the battlements would be flooding through every soldier below. It was one thing to raise arms against another lord, especially those York accused of being traitors and manipulators of the king and queen. It was quite another to stand against the king of England himself in the field. They could all see the pavilion of flags and banners being raised in the centre of the line.
‘Half of them are farmers’ sons,’ Edward said into the silence. ‘They can be routed, just as they ran at Blore Heath. Let Warwick and me take our two thousand against the flank. We’ll roll them up, while the rest assault the centre. Our men are veterans, sir. They are worth two of those men or more, each one.’ Even as he spoke, the Earl of March could sense the despair in Salisbury and his father. He looked to Warwick for support, but even he shook his head.
Salisbury glanced to the top of the steps, gauging whether he could yet be overheard.
‘My father suffered many raids into his lands,’ he said suddenly, ‘all led by the same Scots laird. Ralph Neville was a cautious man, but on one occasion he found himself outnumbered, caught in the open. He knew if he stood and fought, he would have lost it all.’
The three men with him were listening as Salisbury peered again at the steps.
‘He sent his serving men forward, three big lads with two chests of silver, leaving them alone in a meadow while the clansmen crept up like the wolves they are. Perhaps it was their unexpected good fortune that made them wary, or simply because they had already learned the earl was a cunning enemy. The laird’s men expected a trap and by the time they realized there was none, my father had retreated to a stronghold and was out of their reach.’
‘What of the silver and his men?’ Edward asked.
Salisbury shrugged.
‘They were all taken. The men were killed and the silver spirited away to the laird’s longhouse. They drank themselves to a stupor at the wealth they had won and they were still asleep when my father’s men fell on them from the darkness. He had brought more than enough for the work and they’d followed the tracks of clansmen carrying the heavy chests, right through field and forest. My father’s men killed the laird in his home and slaughtered his bondsmen before they could rise and defend themselves. In the morning, they took back their chests and returned across the border. It was a memory my father cherished in his final years. It kept him warm in the cold, he said, to remember their surprise.’
A clatter of footsteps made Salisbury raise a hand in warning to them all, snapping his mouth shut on whatever else he might have added. The king’s herald was dressed in pink and blue, a jay among crows on that roof. He was panting and he bowed elaborately, acknowledging the three earls and York last of all.
‘My lords, I speak for his Royal Majesty, King Henry of England, Ireland and France, Protector and Defender of the Realm, Duke of Lancaster and Cornwall, God’s blessing on his name.’ The herald paused, swallowing uncomfortably under the cold gazes of the men he addressed. ‘My lords, I am to say that the king will pardon all those who have taken up arms against him. He will show mercy to any man who accepts his pardon without delay.’ He had to summon his nerve to go on, a sheen of sweat appearing along his brow. ‘Excepting only the Duke of York, the Earl of Salisbury and the Earl of Warwick. Those men are declared traitors and must be handed over to the royal forces and the king’s own authorities.’
‘What of the Earl of March?’ Edward demanded, honestly affronted that he had not been mentioned.
The herald looked nervously at the enormous man, shaking his head.
‘I was not told to say that name, my lord. I … cannot …’
‘Go, sir,’ York said suddenly. ‘I will send my answer at noon, with my own man. Will you return to the king’s side?’
‘Yes, my lord. His Highness awaits what answer you would have him hear.’
‘King Henry stands then, in the host? He is present on the field?’
‘I saw him with these eyes, my lord. I swear it. I will await your answer, if you wish.’
‘No,’ York replied, dismissing him with a sharp gesture. ‘Return to your master.’
The herald bowed again and vanished, escorted down through the castle by York’s staff.
Salisbury could see York readying himself to snap furious orders. As the herald left, he spoke quickly.
‘My father’s tale is the key to this lock. We cannot stand today. We do not have the men or the walls to resist such an army.’
‘You’d have me run?’ York demanded, rounding on his oldest friend.
‘Has the king not offered a pardon?’ Salisbury replied instantly. The herald had aided him, unknowing. Yet Salisbury still had to find words that would placate York’s prickly honour. ‘Tell your captains to wait for your return. Tell them the king is just a puppet of the Percys, or a pawn of his French queen.’ He held up his hand and spoke more loudly as York began to argue. ‘Tell them you will come back in the spring and that a leader chooses the place he will stand – and does not let his enemies choose it for him! God knows, the king is not popular. He has hardly left Kenilworth in – how long now? No parliaments called for three years, no order in the land. There is little love for him – more for you. Let your men and mine have their pardons, Richard! Let them return to their homes, knowing that this is just a breath between blows, before we break this royal rabble into pieces, lord by lord, man by man!’
York stared, his mouth slightly open. He looked as if he wrestled with betrayal, and Salisbury’s son added his voice to the argument.
‘We cannot win here,’ Warwick said softly. ‘You know that is the truth. We could die here, in all certainty, but I would rather we give them their small triumph – and then come back and fall on them when they are drowsing and drunk on their success. The final victory is what matters, my lord York, not how it comes about.’
The anger seeped out of York and he let his head droop, leaning back on the stone battlements. Ignoring Warwick, his eyes beseeched Salisbury.
‘You think we can return, after such a loss?’ he said, his voice hoarse with pain.
‘They have surprised us here. We will surprise them in turn. There is no dishonour in such a course, Richard. If there were, I would blow the horns with you and settle it today, one way or the other. Would you have me throw my life away in this place?’ Salisbury raised his chin. ‘If you give the order, we will fight to the last man. We will strike hard at the king’s –’
The tramp and jingle of men in mail interrupted him and all four looked over the battlements to the gathered armies far below. Warwick exclaimed as he saw the colours of the marching soldiers.
‘What are they doing?’ he said in shock. ‘That is Captain Trollope leading my men away! What is he … ?’
He fell silent as the ranks of six hundred Calais veterans raised a white banner and approached the king’s forces. They were met with a hostile bristling of pikes as well as knights and lords riding out to meet them. As Warwick watched in disgust, the ranks parted to allow the marching column to pass through.
‘God’s wounds, that’s the end of it,’ Salisbury said. ‘We needed those men.’ He turned to York. ‘It is no small thing to stand against the king, my friend. If you’ll depart this place, we can prepare our captains for our return. I will not be idle, I swear it. I’ll send each one a letter swearing my loyalty to the king and asking only that he defends Henry from evil men.’
‘I cannot walk away!’ York shouted, silencing him. ‘Do you not understand? If we leave tonight, we will be attainted, every one of us! York and Salisbury, gone! Warwick, gone! March, gone! My life’s work, my house, my name, blackened by their writs, destroyed and broken! Damn you. Damn King Henry and his French bitch. I would rather die here, with these walls at my back.’
‘I would rather live,’ Warwick said, speaking firmly across Yo
rk’s grief. ‘I would live so that I can overturn any law they make. I would live so that I can hold Parliament in my hand and make them tear up these Writs of Attainder. And I would live so that I can take my vengeance against my enemies, with men who understand that York too is a royal line. That is what I would do, my lord. Yet my father spoke the truth. If you wish, I will stand with you as the soldiers despoil your home and those you love. I will remain at your side as they are let loose to rape and torture, to burn and shatter everything you hold dear. That is my oath and the strength of my word. My fate lies with you.’
York looked around at the three men waiting on his decision. He was trapped, caught between two paths, each so appalling that he could only stare and shake. After a long time, he nodded.
‘I have friends in Ireland, still. Men who care nothing for Attainder and who would protect me in my estates. Will you come with me?’
‘Not I,’ Salisbury said. ‘Calais will keep me out of the clutches of the king’s officers, but it is close to Kent. Close enough to leap over on a dark night next year.’
‘Warwick?’ York asked.
‘Calais,’ Warwick said firmly.
‘Edward?’ York said, turning and looking up at his son, standing there like a tree above them all. The young man squirmed, caught between conflicting loyalties.
‘If you will allow it, father, I would rather return to France. There’s nowhere better placed to gather an army and cross back.’
If his son’s choice was another blow, York did not show any sign of it. He nodded, clapping Edward on the shoulder.
‘There is a path and a bridge across to meadows, to the west of Ludlow. It’s a quiet route and it will take us far away. I must speak to my wife before I leave, as well as my captains. They must be told what to expect. What say you to April, six months from now, for our return?’
‘Give me nine months, my lord,’ Warwick replied. ‘Nine months and I will gather enough men to win back everything we have lost.’
York nodded, feigning confidence against a chilling desolation that numbed his limbs.
‘Very well. I will expect to hear you have landed on the first day of July, on your souls, all of you. Give me your oaths that you will set foot on English soil in July next year, or be ever known as faithless men, oathbreakers. With God’s blessing, we will pay them in full for this disgrace.’
All three earls gave a private vow, gripping Richard of York by the arm and kneeling on the battlements. In sombre mood, they left the heights then, to arrange for their escape.
As evening came, torches were lit across Ludlow Castle and all through the village of Ludford to the south. The great gates of the fortress were thrown open and the first ranks of armoured knights rode in, carrying the banners of the noble houses they represented. Duchess Cecily of York stood to meet them in the open courtyard beyond the gates, stiff and still as armed horsemen swept by her, seeking out some sign of her husband, or the first breath of a trap. They tramped and rushed all over the castle, kicking in doors and reducing the servants to terror as they quivered with their heads down, expecting a blade to land at any moment.
Two hours passed before Queen Margaret entered Ludlow, riding ahead of a hundred of her Gallants. She sat side-saddle on her horse and it was Thomas, Lord Egremont, who helped her to dismount. Her face was icy with disdain as she reached York’s wife and regarded the older woman with cold fascination.
‘Your brave husband has run, then,’ Margaret said. ‘A coward at the last.’
‘And yours is nowhere to be seen. Is he sleeping, or at prayer?’ Cecily replied sweetly. Margaret’s eyes narrowed as Cecily went on. ‘You have won tonight, my dear, but my husband will claim what he is owed. You must never doubt that.’
‘He will not have this place,’ Margaret said, gesturing to the stone walls all around and smiling at the older woman who had once intimidated her. ‘Ludlow will be sold now York is made common, with every other stone and scrap of land he once owned. Where will you rest your head then, Cecily? With no servants to tend you, or any name beyond wife to a traitor? I have seen the writs, with my husband’s seal proudly on them. You will not find shelter with Salisbury, or with Warwick after this month. They are all subject to Attainder and that foul trinity is cracked apart.’
Cecily of York shuddered as if the words were blows. Not far off, they could both hear yells and screams as the king’s soldiers tore through the village of Ludford, unrestrained as they followed orders to search for York.
‘I married a man, dear,’ Cecily said, ‘rather than a child. Perhaps if you had done the same, you might understand why I am not afraid.’
‘I married a king,’ Margaret snapped, driven to fury by the woman’s calm superiority.
‘Yes, you did. And he lost France in return. I do not think it was the best bargain, dear, do you?’
Margaret was tempted to strike Cecily of York in her anger. She might have done so if the woman’s young children had not been herded out around her. The eldest, Edmund, had one arm around two younger sisters. At sixteen, he had most of a man’s growth, though he wore only a belted tunic and hose and bore no weapon. Edmund carried the smallest lad on his hip. Richard was awkward there, clinging to his brother like a frightened cat and staring around with wide eyes.
Cecily turned to them and held out her arms for the lad.
‘Come here to me, Richard,’ she said, smiling as he almost leaped from his brother to her arms so that she staggered under his weight.
The little boy winced as he clambered to a safe position, making a low, animal groan until Cecily kissed him on the forehead. She turned back to Margaret then, raising her eyebrows in silent question.
‘I must take my children away now, unless you have more to say to me?’
One of the little girls began to sob and wail at the sight of so many strange soldiers in their home. Cecily shushed her, waiting for the queen to allow her to go. Margaret bit her lip, but she took no joy in dismissing York’s wife. She was left staring after them as they walked out through the gates, confused by her own envy and sadness.
23
Margaret breathed deeply, enjoying the smells filling the Palace of Westminster. Christmas was just three days gone and though December the twenty-eighth was Herod’s day, when the old tyrant had ordered the death of children, it was also the day the royal kitchens would bake all the remnants of venison into pies and send them out. They took the ‘umbles’: the liver and the heart, the brains and feet and ears, simmering them all into a rich gravy before sealing them in pastry. The royal kitchen staff then carried them out to a shout of triumph from those gathered outside the palace. The umble pies would be cut into thick slices and borne off still steaming for families to enjoy. Margaret had tasted a slice of one and found the thick juice took a while to work from her mouth and teeth.
She looked down on the crowd from a high window, content to observe them as the line of cooks came out, each bearing a tray and a heavy pie, with knives on their hips to cut the shares. There were no children in the crowd, she noticed. On Herod’s day, they were often beaten in memory of that king’s cruelty and the boys and girls of London made themselves scarce as best they could, keeping their heads down and getting on with work in silence, rather than remind their masters of the tradition. Men and women were there, smiling and light-hearted as they clustered around the line of cooks. Many had brought their own cloths and baskets to carry a piece away.
Margaret ran a hand over her stomach, feeling the heaviness there from all she had eaten over the previous few days. She had sat through a Christmas service in Westminster Abbey with her husband nodding beside her. Carollers had gathered outside to dance and sing for the birth of Christ, banned from entering the churches for how they disrupted the congregation. They had begun a scuffle, she recalled, fighting in the street until her guards had gone out with cudgels and sent them roughly on their way with kicks and blows.
Derry Brewer cleared his throat behind her and Margar
et turned, smiling at the sight of him in his best, brushed garments. It was hard to reconcile the image of the man who had just entered with the thin and shivering monk who had come to her in Windsor, five years before. Derry had put on weight in the intervening time, his waist and shoulders growing heavy. Yet he looked strong still, like a boar who had not lost its cunning with age. She touched her own stomach lightly at the thought. Grief and worry had helped her to avoid the same fate, perhaps because her womb had remained unfilled, after Edward. That thought was a pang of sorrow, and she forced a smile to greet her spymaster.
‘What news, Derry? My steward told me there would be children beaten through London this afternoon. I think he was playing with me, knowing I spent my childhood in France. Is it true?’
‘It has happened, my lady, if the apprentices have grown rowdy and their masters have lost patience. There have been riots before, on this day. Not every year, though. If your wish is to see such a thing, I can certainly arrange it for you.’
Margaret laughed and shook her head.
‘Would that all my desires could be met in such a way, Derry. That is how I imagined being a queen, when I was a girl, crossing the Channel for the first time.’ Her words brought back a memory of the man who had brought her to England, William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk. Sadness came to her eyes then, in his memory.
‘How goes your work, Derry? Is the fleet ready?’
‘I have every shipwright on the south coast working night and day. New vessels or the old repaired, the fleet will be finished, my lady, by the spring. We’ll have ships to take an army such as France has not seen since ’46. It will be enough to scorch Salisbury and Warwick and March out of Calais, I am certain. If they have gone further into France, it will be alone. The French king would never allow English soldiers to march or camp on his land. We’ll secure Calais for the Crown, my lady, never doubt it. We’ll deny that stepping-stone to the king’s enemies, whatever they intend.’
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 26