‘And after that, York, in Ireland,’ Margaret said.
It was spoken as a half-question, and Derry answered it as he had a dozen times before.
‘My lady, you know I have said Ireland is a wild place – and York is well loved there, from his time as King’s Lieutenant.’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘He has friends in Ireland who believe the house of York … well, that it should be the royal line. They will resist, their men with them. My lady, taking a fleet across twenty miles of sea to Calais is no great step. We can blockade that port and land an army, cannon, anything we need, though I hope they will surrender before we are forced to breach the walls. I do not want the French king to feel he has another opportunity born from our strife! Ireland … is somewhat different, my lady. To land an army on that wild east coast would be a proper campaign, a year or more away from England when those men might find some better use at home. The Irish are sullen folk. Their lords will resent the challenge to their authority and just one spark could set off a rebellion. I have said I cannot recommend such a course, at least this year. Please, let me consider York once again when we have Calais in our grasp. God loves those who plan too far, my lady. He loves to show them the cost of their ambitions.’
Margaret pursed her lips, making a moue in her frustration.
‘I cannot let that bird rest,’ she said. ‘He escaped when we had him at bay, scorning all my Gallants. Can you understand, Derry? I saw Salisbury slaughter good men who had come to the field with my badge, for love of me. Where is the punishment for that foul day? Where is the justice, with Salisbury and his son safe in France, York in Ireland? I want them brought home in chains, Derry! For all they have cost me, for all they have threatened.’
‘Your Highness, I know. It would be Christmas once again, if I could see York and Salisbury brought back for trial. I was at St Albans, my lady. I know the debts they have run up – which remain. They will be paid, I swear it. With sixty ships, packed full of men and cannons, we’ll dig them out like foxes. I ask only for your patience.’
Margaret nodded stiffly, waving a hand to dismiss him. Derry bowed, feeling his back twinge. God, he was getting old! He considered all the things he had to do that day and whether he could fit in an hour of sword practice with one of the king’s guards. He had learned to ride like a knight, after all. He had decided to learn to fight like one, though it hurt his pride to be knocked about like an unruly child. He made a decision, determined to work up a sweat, no matter what it cost him.
Margaret had turned away to the window as he left, smiling once again at the sight of London crowds. The new year was just days away and she had high hopes for it, more than any of those gone before. First Calais, then York, wherever he had hidden himself. Her husband’s enemies would be hunted down and Henry could live out his years in peace. England would be stronger for all the suffering, Margaret was certain, just as she had grown strong in the forge-heat. She could still recall the innocent she had been, a slip of a girl who spoke in broken English, a mere whisper of the woman she had become.
For a dark January night, the sea was calm. It had to be, for what Warwick had in mind. He and his chosen men had fretted through three days of a terrible blow raging across the Channel, taking comfort only in the fact that the royal fleet would never be able to come out of port in such rough seas.
The year 1460 was still young, with just three months having passed since their flight from Ludlow. While York sailed for Ireland, Salisbury, Warwick and Edward of March had slipped over to France in a herring boat. That had been the lowest point for all of them, though the three earls had thrown themselves into plans for their return almost as they set foot in the Calais fortress. Salisbury’s brother William, Lord Fauconberg, had visited them later, bringing a hundred men with him and two sturdy caravelles to be tied up in the sheltered docks. As one who had been favoured among Henry’s supporters, Fauconberg had also brought news of a Lancastrian fleet being assembled in Kent, ships to land ten thousand or more in the spring. If there had been any doubt in their minds about the future path, his words had dispelled them. The Writs of Attainder had been issued, and they would not be left alone in their exile.
The port of Sandwich was quiet and still in the small hours of a frozen winter morning. Warwick and Salisbury walked together along the deserted quayside, with Edward of March just a step behind. Some forty men followed in staggered groups of six or a dozen at a time. In all, two hundred veteran soldiers had crossed to England that night, wearing simple, rough clothes of wool and leather. Armour or mail would only have been a hindrance for the sort of quiet work they planned. In the darkness, they had a chance to pass for king’s crews or Kent fishermen. Yet Sandwich had been raided by the French many times over the centuries. Enemy ships had slipped across that channel before, and Warwick was only surprised the church bells had not already begun to toll a warning across the town.
Their luck held for an age. They had tied up four small ships among the shadowy royal fleet, some forty at anchor, with no more than a few lamps swinging between them all. The town itself was black against the night sky, with so many of its inhabitants used to rising before dawn. Warwick and his father had timed their crossing to arrive when the fishing crews were asleep, and the king’s sailors would still be sleeping off their ale.
Warwick turned sharply at a strangled yell from one of the merchant cogs, all creaking in their berths. He could not tell the source. The ships tied up along the dockside were so close together, his men had been able to clamber on to one and then step across to the next. For those anchored further out, small boats carried Warwick’s men to ladders set in the wooden walls, creeping aboard as silently as they could manage. At that moment, they were sprinting across dark decks in bare feet, clubbing or knifing the poor souls left to guard them as quietly as they could. The king’s crews were all ashore and each ship held just a few young men given the task of tending a lamp and keeping watch against the French.
Warwick was looking out to sea and he jumped as his father gripped his arm. Lamplight was approaching along a side road leading towards the waterfront. Perhaps because of the presence of so many of the king’s soldiers in town, the local watchmen were less alert than they might have been. As Warwick and March darted forward, they could hear snatches of laughter and conversation, some story of the Christmas just past. Warwick could sense the huge shadow that was Edward of March at his right shoulder. Dressing the young giant in fisherman’s wool had been a lost cause. No one could look at him and not know he was a soldier.
There were six men in the small group that rounded the corner and came to a shocked halt. Warwick could see one of them carried a large handbell to rouse the town. He swallowed. The two groups stood frozen, staring at each other.
‘The French!’ one of the watchmen hissed, raising the bell.
‘Shut up, you fool,’ Warwick said sharply. ‘Do we look French?’
The man hesitated, up on his toes as if he’d sprint away at any moment. The one leading them pulled back the shutters on his lamp, the gleam revealing some of the shadowy men trotting up behind Warwick. The watchman cleared his throat carefully, knowing that the wrong word would surely get him killed.
‘We don’t want any trouble, whoever you are,’ he said, trying to put some authority into a voice that was strained and shaking. The man’s eyes flickered to Edward, sensing his readiness for violence.
‘Earls Warwick, Salisbury and March,’ Warwick answered. He didn’t care who heard they’d been there. All he wanted was to get the ships away and be gone by the time the sun came up. It wasn’t as if the royal crews could chase them in fishing boats.
The watchman leaned closer, staring. To Warwick’s surprise, he smiled. Without turning around he muttered a command to those with him not to run.
‘You’ll need to tie us up, then,’ he said. ‘Or the king’s men will see us hanged in the morning.’
‘Sod that, Jim!’ the bell-carrier hissed at him. ‘They’ll
flog us anyway.’
‘You’ll survive,’ the watchman snapped. ‘If you sound that bell, Pete, I’ll batter you meself.’
Warwick had been frowning as he followed the exchange. He’d expected a quick, brutal scuffle with the watchmen, then perhaps a race to the last ships in the dock as the town came alive to repel invaders. As the furious whispered argument went on, Warwick glanced around at Salisbury and March. York’s son shrugged at him.
In frustration, the one with the lamp suddenly rounded on his companion, reaching for the clapper of his bell and snatching it out of his hand with a dull clunk.
‘There you are, my lord. We won’t give you any trouble.’
‘Do I know you?’ Warwick asked.
‘Jim Wainwright, my lord. We’ve not met, though I do remember you chasing me along an alleyway a few years back.’ Wainwright grinned oddly then, showing missing teeth. ‘I was walking with Jack Cade then.’
‘Ah,’ Warwick replied warily, understanding at last. Thousands of Kentish men had come home with their spoils after that terrible night. He wondered how many of them still remembered the rebellion with fondness.
‘It ain’t right what they did to Cade and his mates,’ Wainwright said, raising his chin. ‘These boys don’t know what it was like, but I do. We were pardoned by the queen, my lord, all sealed and fine – and then they still sent Sheriff Iden to hunt us down. I lost good friends to that bastard. Men who’d been pardoned, just like me.’ He took a moment to glare back at his companions, making sure they were not trying to sidle away. ‘We’ve all heard the king’s crews talking about the rebels in Calais. I reckon you were on the wrong side once, but perhaps you’ve learned better by now, eh?’
‘Perhaps I have,’ Warwick said faintly, making the man chuckle.
‘That’s what I thought, my lord.’ Wainwright looked to his left as a black ship eased away from the dock, the sail heaved up on to the yard by silent figures.
‘It’s the ships, is it? You’re after the king’s ships?’
Warwick nodded, surprised to hear Wainwright chuckle aloud.
‘They’ll be furious in the morning, I know that much. It seems to me, though, that I’m not going to side with king’s crews. Not when I’ve a chance to pay them back for Cade.’ Wainwright scratched his chin as he thought. ‘And if you need men, my lord, you could do a lot worse than look for them in Kent, that’s all I’m saying. There’s more than me who still bear a grudge or two about that night. There’s some who don’t like what happened at Ludlow, neither.’
‘What of Ludlow?’ Warwick said softly. ‘We left when there was no hope, not before.’ He saw the watchman looked embarrassed.
‘Word is the king’s fine, brave lads were let loose on the village there,’ Wainwright said. ‘Worse than French raiders. It was the talk of the country at Christmas. Ravishment and killing of innocents. Terrible thing. King Henry didn’t stop it, or even try to, so they say. I tell you, my lord. You just call “Kent” when you’re ready and see what happens, that’s all. We don’t like to hear of king’s men killing women and children and that’s the truth. You’ll get more than a few volunteers for a spot of vengeance – and we’re the ones who broached the Tower, don’t forget. We might not have mail-shirts and that, but then a Kentish man don’t need one. He’s in and out quick.’
Salisbury had listened to the exchange without a word. He looked up to the turning stars above and tapped his son on the shoulder.
‘We should go on,’ he murmured. ‘Tie these men and take the last of the ships.’
Even as they’d been talking, the dark rows of cogs and caravelles had thinned like teeth being drawn, more and more of them with ropes hanging loose, easing out on to the deeper waters beyond. No more than half a dozen remained, their lamps snuffed and their decks cleared.
Warwick nodded. He’d been expecting a fight on the docks and was still ready for the sound of church bells across the town. It was time to leave.
‘Thank you, Master Wainwright,’ he said. ‘And I’ll remember what you told me.’
‘You do that, my lord. Kent will rise for a good cause. For a bad one too, mebbe, but a good one’s better.’
It took only a short time to truss the six watchmen. With apologies, Warwick had two of his soldiers add a set of bruises to the faces of a couple of them, though he spared Wainwright that. It was only an hour or two to dawn and he knew the watchmen would be found at first light, with a bloody nose or two for show.
Warwick sent his father and March to different ships, each taking command of a small crew. He waited to the very last before leaping on to the final vessel and taking position at the tiller to steer her out. The tide was turning and it took only half a dozen men to raise the single sail and catch the morning breeze. They left a long and empty length of dock behind them, and Warwick looked back and laughed as he went.
The waves were less calm beyond the shelter of the port. The men from Calais were spread too thinly amongst the ships they’d captured, so they used the smaller boats to take ropes between them. One well-manned ship could tow another easily enough, with the sun rising and France clearly visible across the Channel.
With the sails up and billowing in the wind, Warwick felt the desire to sing a sea shanty he recalled from his youth. His voice rang out across the waves and those who heard and knew it sang with him, grinning as they worked the sails and tillers, guiding their prizes back to Calais.
24
Spring came to the French coast, bringing gentle breezes and blue skies filled with wheeling cormorants and gulls. The stolen fleet had proved vital for sailing up the coast of England to collect soldiers and lords loyal to the Yorkist cause. By June, the Calais fortress was heaving with English soldiers, packed into every spare space and stable. Two thousand of them would cross and invade, leaving eight hundred behind. As the last piece of English land in France, neither Salisbury nor Warwick wanted to be the ones who lost the fortress in their absence. The Calais walls had to be well manned, no matter what else was at stake.
Warwick had not been idle in the months since his jaunt across to Kent. The watchman’s words had interested him and there was rarely a night that went by without some small cog slipping over on the dark waters, filled with the best speakers he could find. As the spring passed, Warwick’s men were to be found in every Kent town and village, calling out for those who wished to avenge Jack Cade and repay the savagery of Ludford. Ten years before, Cade had entered London with some fifteen thousand men. Though some of them had been from Essex and other parts, the king and his officers were no more popular in Kent than they had been a decade earlier. A new generation of boys had grown up under the yoke of cruel punishments and brutal taxation. After the dark news of Attainder carried out on York, Salisbury and Warwick, every report Warwick received went some way to revive his sprits.
By the end of June, they were ready. Only bad weather kept them in port then, the sea too rough to risk a crossing. Mindful of his oath to York, Warwick fretted for every lost day, but the gales had to blow themselves out. His fleet of forty-eight small ships could carry all two thousand across in one great surge, with half the Calais garrison employed to bring the ships back to France. After the desertion of Captain Trollope to the king’s side, those men could not do enough to aid the earls.
As they trooped into boats and rowed out to the ships, it intrigued Warwick to think of men like Caesar, who had been forced to build a fleet to take his legions across to Kent, fifteen hundred years before. The target was the same: London. As well as a royal garrison they dared not leave at their backs, London meant Parliament and the only group with the power to reverse the Writs of Attainder. London was the key to England’s lock, as it had always been.
The wind was blowing hard towards the English coast as the fleet launched. Grey clouds were low overhead and a constant drizzle chilled the men packed into the ships. Yet it was only a single leap and they could see the landing spot after just an hour or so at sea. One by one
, the ships came in under as much sail as they dared raise. The captains could not beach the vessels for fear of staving them in. It took time to land men by boats and, all the while, the local militia could be seen rushing along the quays and docks, gathering men to repel the invasion. There were too few to hold back so many boatloads of men landing at once. A brief struggle developed before the militia gave up, leaving bodies on the quayside and more men haring away.
Warwick landed a little further along the coast, establishing a defensible position on a long shingle beach and putting archers out. Unchallenged, he and his men marched back to the port of Sandwich and filled it, watching as ships turned and raised sail, tacking into a rough sea and rising wind. Even then, there were hundreds of small boats still being rowed to shore, in such numbers that they bobbed together like driftwood. Some were unlucky, the fragile craft turning over as they caught a wave. Men who went into the surf in mail-shirts were not seen again.
Close by the spot where Warwick had touched the land of his birth, two of the merchant cogs were driven right up on the shingle. As the ships leaned and settled, their captains ran plank bridges out from the lowest point of the deck so that they could walk a dozen blindfolded warhorses to the ground. Those ships would rot where they lay, but men like Salisbury were too old to march the sixty miles to London.
The sun was setting by the time the last of the fleet vanished into the mist and clouds on the Channel, leaving them alone. In a thin drizzle, the men settled down to fires on the beach and docks. They ate and drank and covered themselves as best they could, trying to snatch a few hours of sleep.
With the sun’s return, a column of men came marching through the town. Soldiers were leaping up all around Warwick, ready for an attack. Yet it was not the local militia returning to repel his men, or even some part of the king’s forces. Word had already spread of the landing and hundreds of Kentish men had come with their axes and pikes and cleavers. They halted by the docks and Warwick could only smile, accepting watchman Jim Wainwright into his service at fourpence a day. The earls’ army began to move west and those first few hundred became thousands, with every town they passed adding to their number.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 27