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

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I do not like the risk,’ Salisbury said firmly. ‘You’d have me head straight towards an enemy of twice our number.’

  He started in surprise when York laughed and breathed in sharply, filling his chest.

  ‘I am home. They have made me march through storms and rain and I am only stronger for all of it. This year is ending – and this last, great hunt with it. Sandal is just a few miles away. I do not fear your “risk”, or the movements of my enemies, no matter how many they have brought.’ York shook his head in saturnine amusement. ‘I will not run. Not today, or any day. Being forced to leave Ludlow was enough for one lifetime. I tell you, they will not see my back again.’

  His eyes were cold as he waited for a reply, wondering if Salisbury would continue to argue, while time they needed drained away.

  ‘Four leagues to Sandal? You are certain? Twelve miles?’ Salisbury said at last. York smiled at his friend.

  ‘No more than that, I swear it. I used to ride from York to the market in Sheffield when I was a boy, travelling with your father. I know these lands. We’ll be safe within Sandal’s walls before the sun even begins to set.’

  ‘Then increase the pace,’ Salisbury replied. ‘We cannot make the sun stand still.’

  The army camped outside the city of York was the largest Derry Brewer had ever seen, just about. Even so, he continued to fret, worrying at an infected scratch on a finger with his teeth, pressing against the hot flesh and spitting when bitterness seeped into his mouth. Stormclouds lay above the vast fields of tents and men, all suffering in the constant damp. They had dug trenches for their waste, only to see them flood on a single night of heavy rain, producing a stream of filth that ran through the camp, mingling with standing water. Sickness was spreading through them as well, so that at any moment, there would be a few hundred men groaning as they emptied their bowels with their hose or Gallic breeches down by their ankles. For some reason, the Scots were suffering worse than the other men, reduced to misery by the strange purge and as weak as children while it burned through them.

  Derry dismounted at the edge of the queen’s pavilion, the largest single structure on the plain. He passed the reins of Retribution to a servant, taking a moment to explain the horse’s desperate desire for a wizened winter apple, if such a thing could be found. Derry showed the boy a silver penny as a promise and went in to the war council, hearing the voices of Margaret and her lords while he was still paces away.

  Inside, the noise of rain was much louder. The tent leaked in a dozen places, dripping into pots in dull tones and making the air thick with moisture. Field braziers stood on soaked groundcloth, raising wisps of mist and adding the pungent smoke of charcoal and crackling green wood to the atmosphere. Derry draped his cloak along a bench, almost unnoticed as he left it to dry and came to listen.

  Lord Clifford was in the middle of the discussion, a short, fine-boned man with a delicate moustache that would need trimming every single day to keep its shape. Though Clifford was only one of a dozen minor barons in that multitude, he had been brazen in using his father’s death at St Albans with men like Somerset and Percy. For that shared loss, they had granted Clifford a seat at their table and authority far beyond whatever was merited by his rank.

  Derry didn’t like the man, at all. The young baron had a tendency to talk over him, as if his opinion was utterly worthless. It would always have been hard to respect such a man but, as it happened, Derry had made no special effort to learn the trick of it.

  Standing on the outskirts, Derry wondered if it was intentional that the group of noblemen all faced the queen, as if she were the fire that warmed them all. He noted the enormous red-bearded Scot standing by her shoulder as a guard. The man was impassive, but he was listening closely enough to those who would eventually order his companions into battle.

  Derry took in every detail in a brief glance, settling himself and ignoring the smell of illness and weak bowels that hung in the air, along with damp wool and rotting leather. At least it was warm, he thought gratefully.

  ‘If York has brought the king north, it will be as a prisoner,’ Clifford was saying. ‘I’ve instructed my captains to ignore any royal banners, if they see them. They know King Henry would never march against his wife and son, so I do not fear desertion. Such men are happier with simple instructions, as you know. Yet they are resolute, my lady. I think the sight of lions on the battlefield will raise their spirits, confirm to them that they are rescuing King Henry. Let us pray that York has brought him forth! It will give the men heart.’

  Margaret noticed Derry Brewer edging closer. She beckoned him in, ignoring Clifford’s exasperated grunt as Somerset and Percy allowed him to the front of their group.

  ‘What news, Master Brewer?’

  ‘There is some sickness in the camp still, my lady, but fewer men affected today than yesterday. I’ve seen such things in France, but as yet we have lost only a few of the weakest men. I think it will burn out rather than spread further, God willing. I sent the worst sixty or so back to the city to rest, with orders for them to be given broth and ale. I had to insist on “one in one out” after that, or we’d have the whole army resting up in the warm.’ He glanced up at the impassive stare of the Scotsman at her shoulder. ‘The Scottish lads refused to go, my lady. It seems they prefer to treat their own ailments.’

  Expressionless, the big man nodded to him, just a fraction, making Derry smile.

  ‘Does this man have nothing more important to report?’ Lord Clifford said suddenly, his voice too loud for the confined space. ‘We know there is sickness in the camp, Brewer. I imagine there are thieves as well, stealing the kit of their friends. What of it?’ He looked around at the others, as if he expected them to throw Derry out into the rain.

  Somerset shook his head, choosing to ignore the outburst for more pressing business.

  ‘We await the order to march, my lady. Will it be today? It takes some time to pack up the camp and the light is already fading. I’d like the men to be ready to move.’

  Silence came in the tent, as every man there turned to catch Margaret’s reply. Twin frown lines appeared between her eyes and Derry noted she picked at the skin of a thumbnail with the second finger of her right hand as she stood there. He understood her worry, with so many senior lords looking to her. She had insisted on their obedience, forcing her rank and right to do so down their throats. This was the price, that she had to give an order that might send them all to their deaths. Every man there had some personal reason for taking the field against York, but the responsibility was hers, for her husband and her son.

  Margaret began to speak and then strangled the sound as it came out, turning it into a long breath. She had witnessed a terrible slaughter at Blore Heath and seen entire armies torn apart at Northampton by Warwick and March. She had travelled hundreds of miles to gather enough men to march on London and save the king. Long before they were ready, York had come into the north.

  The decision had been forced by his presence. All Margaret had to do was risk everything. The finger picking at her thumbnail increased its urgency, so that Derry could hear the click as it snagged. His heart went out to her as the silence went on. She had brokered with Tudors and Scots to win their support. Her own son was promised, her own future wagered on a single throw. Derry could understand how she might fear to extend her arm and toss the dice once again. If York wrested another triumph from the men in that tent, she had nothing else to give.

  ‘My lord Somerset tells me caution wins no wars,’ Margaret said at last. Something eased in her expression, some terrible tension vanishing from her frame. Her fingers stopped their feverish clicking and fell limp. She took in a sharp breath, almost a gasp. ‘Pass the order to break camp, my lords. We will take the field against York’s army and whoever stands with him. Remember that you fight to save the king of England, held by foul traitors. You are on the side of right. God’s blessing and my thanks go with you all.’

  Her head dipped a
s she finished, some of the brittle fierceness fading so that she once again looked tired and sad. The gathered lords bowed and thanked her in gruff chorus, released from the traps and already moving out to their men.

  Derry was left almost alone with the queen, though the Scotsman too had remained, watching him closely. After the deal she had made beyond the border, they had clearly decided to protect her long enough to see it through. Derry winked at the big man, making him drop a hand to the hilt of a long knife in his belt in reply.

  ‘I might have asked if you had any special instruction for me, my lady, though perhaps it is not yet private enough.’ He inclined his head theatrically at the dour warrior.

  The man simply stared back.

  Margaret twisted a thread of her hair around her fingers, tighter and tighter. Her tone was bleak as she replied.

  ‘You always said your work ends when the fighting begins, Derry. You have been more help to me than I could ever say, but the fighting has come. I suppose it will be settled now by archers and knights and men-at-arms.’ She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. ‘Derry, I have seen Salisbury command before. I saw him destroy an army three times the size of his own at Blore Heath. I do not know enough to fear York on the field, but I do fear Salisbury. Will you stay close to me?’

  ‘Of course I will! As for the rest, you have good men in Somerset and Percy, my lady. You need not worry. Somerset is a fine commander. His father taught him well and the lads trust him. From what I can see, he has a gift for it – and he’s not above taking advice. None of them love York, Margaret. They know the stakes and they won’t falter, I promise you. Even the Scots, probably.’

  The big man at Margaret’s shoulder gave a grunt of irritation, making her chuckle.

  ‘Don’t prod the man, Derry. He would tear you in half.’

  ‘Well, he’s half my age and twice my height, almost,’ Derry said. ‘Though I think I could worry him a little first.’

  The Scot smiled slowly, showing what he thought of that suggestion.

  ‘I should have my horse brought up, Derry,’ Margaret said. ‘Is yours nearby?’

  ‘Retribution? I hardly need to tie him up, he loves me so. He is as loyal as a hound, my lady.’

  Margaret smiled, appreciating his efforts to bring her cheer.

  ‘Let us hope his name is a good omen, then.’

  31

  Sandal Castle lay at the heart of a hundred and twenty thousand acres, almost two hundred square miles of land. As well as farms and forest, entire towns and a dozen parishes lay within the bounds of the estate, with every church, farm or merchant business paying tithes to their liege lord. It was true that York preferred Ludlow Castle as his family home, but he still felt himself relax as he and Salisbury reached the edge of his holdings and rode the last few miles of road to the fortress.

  As with all his outlying estates, Sandal was run in his absence by a trusted steward, the fortress kept ready for him. It had long been York’s habit to visit each of his great houses at least twice every year, spending enough time there to count the incomes and assess all the costs of staff and supplies, anything from new blocks of stables to dredging a local river to prevent flooding. Almost as soon as the army with York and Salisbury had crossed the outer boundary, news went racing ahead and Sir William Peverill was disturbed in his private rooms within the castle, so that the steward came out and took charge. Peverill was far from a young man and yet the routines for the return of the duke were long established and caused him no especial worry. In the closest village of Sandal Magna, servants who had gone home for Christmas were summoned back at their best speed, rushing along the road to the castle in great panting groups to be there to welcome York.

  Before the duke reached the foot of the long hill that led directly to Sandal, Peverill had revised his estimate of the meat required three times, shouting questions back at those who rushed in with news in a tone of growing disbelief. Butchers and their boys were sent out with cleavers to the barns well away from the main walls. Pigs in straw-covered pens, chickens and even drowsy geese were sheltered there from the winter cold. With talk of thousands of soldiers on the road, they would all have to be slaughtered for the spits. The twelve days of Christmas were still upon them and Sir William knew York would expect some sort of feast. The castle steward had the main kitchen fires stoked as well as two others in the undercroft basements that only saw use at celebrations. All over the fortress, boys and maids ran in all directions, dusting and cleaning, wiping windows and struggling into their best clothes.

  York and Salisbury rode together at the head of the column, though they kept their scouts out for miles in all directions, even there. Salisbury had never visited Sandal before and he found himself impressed at the quiet order of the estate as it appeared from the outside. He could not see the frenzy of preparation going on within its walls. The paths and fields were well tended and dozens of charcoal-makers came from their winter huts in the forest to watch the column pass and raise their caps to their lord.

  As the ranks marched slowly up the hill, the wind seemed to increase in speed with every step, biting at their hands and faces until they were all numb and shivering. Salisbury could see tiny figures on the highest level of the keep itself, far above the rest of the fortress. He winced at the thought of spending a night up there to watch for enemies. The land had been cleared around Sandal for half a mile in every direction. Beyond those open fields, thick forest began that stretched across hills into the distance on all sides.

  There was only one entrance to the actual fortress, over a deep moat designed to frustrate cavalry or marching men. York glanced into it with interest as they approached the gatehouse, seeing a few feet of water from the incessant winter rains. The drawbridge was down for his approach under banners and he and Salisbury stepped across the narrow gap together, passing beneath the gatehouse and through walls twelve feet thick at the base.

  Salisbury guided his horse to one side with York, and the marching ranks came through the gate as if there would never be an end to them. The space beyond was a horseshoe of no more than two acres, surrounding another steep drop to a fist-like block of a barbican in dark grey stone, some thirty feet below the main yard. In time of war, it would have been a second obstacle, packed with soldiers and joined by its own drawbridge. The barbican guarded the only path up to the keep, rising above all the rest. That tower had been built on the crest of its own hill, the final defence if the castle was ever breached. Even to reach it, any attacking force would have had to fight their way across two moats and then uphill and over a third drawbridge. When that was pulled back, the keep was utterly isolated from the rest.

  Sandal had none of the grace Salisbury had seen in Ludlow, or his own home of Middleham. It had been built for war, though never with the expectation of eight thousand men cramming inside its walls. Across the far end of the horseshoe, a line of wooden buildings lay close by the outer walls, with doors open and servants standing in ranks to welcome their liege lord. Soldiers streamed in past them, heading briskly out of the wind and cold, so that the latecomers found every room and corridor packed and had to struggle back to find a spot to rest in the yard. Still they came in, until there was no space in the fortress that did not have a man sitting on it and looking around eagerly for food. Far above their heads, the banners of the house of York were raised on the keep, flung out by the gusting wind to show he was in residence once more. York watched his colours rise with a low curse and sent a man into the barbican and up to the highest point to have them taken down.

  As night fell, lamps and candles were lit along every inner wall and a number of braziers brought out for shivering men to cluster around in the yard. As well as the joints carried back in by blood-stained butchers, every basement and winter store was ransacked for hams, ale, huge green joints of bacon with the knob of the bone showing, even pots of honey and preserved fruit – anything at all that might have a chance of satisfying the appetites of so many hungry soldi
ers.

  Salisbury was one of those given a suite of rooms. York’s son Edmund took it upon himself to show him the way, making polite and slightly awkward conversation down an endless track of corridors and halls. Two servants went with them, stopping on either side of a door and standing stiffly.

  ‘This one is empty, my lord,’ Edmund said. ‘These two will wash or repair anything you might need.’

  ‘I needed only to know where I would sleep,’ Salisbury replied. ‘Give me just a moment and I will rejoin your father.’ He vanished inside and Edmund waited impatiently, held by the demands of courtesy to a guest, even in such unusual circumstances.

  The baggage carts were still being unloaded outside the castle, so Salisbury had little with him. True to his word, he returned after a short time. He’d shed his sword and baldric, as well as his outer coat. He’d clearly found time to dip his hands in a bowl of water and he ran them through his hair as he and Edmund walked back along their route.

  ‘You remind me of your father, when he was a young man,’ Salisbury said suddenly.

  Edmund grinned.

  ‘Though I am taller, I believe, my lord.’

  Both men considered Edward in that moment, and Salisbury was intrigued at the frown that flickered across the young man’s face.

  ‘Your brother Edward is the second tallest I have ever seen, after Sir John de Leon, when I served in France. Sir John was not so well made, however, not … um, handsome.’

  ‘Handsome, my lord?’ Edmund said, half-smiling.

  Salisbury shrugged, too old to be embarrassed.

  ‘Yes, I’d say so. Sir John was both the tallest and the ugliest man I have ever encountered. An unfortunate fellow, all in all. He could throw a barrel, of his own weight, twice his height into the air. A fair test and not one I have ever seen beaten. Sadly, despite his great strength, he could not run. He shambled, Edmund, far too slowly as it turns out, at least when it came to French cannon fire.’