“I need a bath,” said Anne in a flat voice and called for a servant.
Later, when Exeter was in the hall with his brothers and well on the way to being ugly-drunk, Anne sat at the table in the bedchamber, and hastily wrote a note to Thomas:
My dearest love,
I never thought that in loving you I was endangering not only myself and you but my servants here, for if my husband ever had a hint of our love his temperament is such that he would not hesitate to use the cruellest methods to get at the truth. For myself, I would risk much for just an hour in your arms but I cannot, in good conscience, risk innocent lives. Oh, my darling, how can I live without you? You are my only happiness. If I have not you, I have nothing.
I pray that God, who sees all things, will take pity on us and not keep us apart for all our days. Until we can be together openly and in honour, I remain,
Your Anne.
When she had finished, she kissed it, folded it over, dripped a blob of wax where the four corners met, and it was ready to be handed to Jonas when he arrived that evening.
Chapter 28
October 1459 – Ludlow Castle, Shropshire
It was dusk when Warwick arrived at Ludlow Castle, hungry, tired and saddle-sore. Behind him were two hundred men of the Calais garrison, clad in the scarlet of his own livery, with their commander, Andrew Trollope. They made a brave show, and as they marched into the outer bailey, everyone in the vicinity turned to watch, while Warwick himself looked around with interest.
The castle looked, sounded and smelled like an army camp and his spirits at once revived. Paddocks for the horses and pens for the livestock that would be slaughtered to feed the host divided the outer bailey. Tents, men and their gear packed another area, leaving only a small space in that vast enclosure where targets had been set up for archery contests. The men of the Marches, so it was said, loved their bows better than their women.
Torches lit the area, and Warwick recognised a few of the men from St. Albans: William Hastings lounged outside a tent tossing dice with Walter Blount, who was running to fat, and two others he didn’t know. Sir Walter Devereux was there and Sir John Wenlock. Wenlock had once been Margaret’s chamberlain and had fought at St. Albans, where he was wounded. Warwick was visiting his men in the infirmary and had a little chat with Wenlock while he was there; after that Wenlock swore fidelity to York. He spotted two of the Bourchiers, York’s nephews and, predictably, the Herbert brothers, Will, Tom and Richard, who dominated the party at the butts.
The reason for all the martial activity was that another confrontation was looming. All through that summer, the atmosphere throughout the country was as oppressive as an impending thunderstorm. The Queen began mustering men in the Midlands and raised the Cheshire levies in her son’s name. Fearing that he was about to be attacked, York put Ludlow in a defensible array and sent for his allies. It seemed that he was right. During his march across England, Warwick had confirmed that the Queen had indeed raised a sizable army with the intention of advancing on Ludlow. She was indefatigable, that one.
There appeared to be no order at all in the inner bailey, only a most gratifying chaos. Men shouted orders, laughing and dicing in quiet corners; two knights practised swordplay surrounded by an admiring crowd. Armaments and gear stood in jumbled piles. Horses, saddled and waiting by the door of the great keep, stamped and snorted; squires and grooms scuttled about like headless chickens and half a dozen wolfhounds tore after a terrified cat. Sentries patrolled the battlements, while bats dipped and darted above them in the gathering gloom. Servants brought torches and thrust them into iron brackets embedded in the walls at intervals, lighting the scene with a murky glow.
Grooms appeared to take the horses and lead them away to the stables. As he dismounted stiffly, Warwick heard a voice he didn’t recognise call his name. “My lord of Warwick, welcome to Ludlow.”
His mouth stretched in astonishment as he looked up to see Edward hurry down the steps of the keep. It had been more than four years since they had last seen each other in London after the battle of St. Albans. His young cousin was now a strapping seventeen-year-old, several inches taller than Warwick himself, who was far from short. Shot up and filled out, broad in the chest, slim at waist and hip, with sparkling blue eyes and a face that, absent the softness of boyhood, was one of uncommon male beauty. Laughing and whooping, they fell into each other’s arms as men do who have shared battle and tankards and confidences, and pounded each other on the back. Then Warwick held him away and looked him up and down.
“I wouldn’t have known you, lad. Have you stopped growing yet?”
“Blessed Saints, I hope so!” Edward said with a rueful grin. “I’ve just got a new harness from Milan, and the cost has nearly beggared me. I’m happy to see you again, Cousin. Come and meet my brother, Edmund.”
Here was a boy who would be forever and inevitably in his brother’s shadow, a smaller, less striking version of Edward. They clearly came from the same stock, but unlike his sunny-natured brother whose mouth would curve at the least provocation, Edmund’s more closely resembled their father’s: thin-lipped and with a tendency to turn down at the corners.
“Happy to meet you, Cousin,” said Edmund, somewhat diffidently. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“And we’re dying to hear more,” said Edward, eyes dancing. “Those Genoese carracks. A two-day battle. We can’t wait to hear about it.”
“Glad to see you made it,” said a new voice, and the two young men moved aside so their father could greet Warwick. These days he wasn’t nearly as tall as his two eldest sons, but his was a commanding presence, nevertheless, a reminder that his bloodlines went back to the very earliest Plantagenets. He didn’t look best pleased. “I’ll admit I was worried. Not the best route to choose, was it?”
It was said mildly, but there was no doubt it was a reprimand. Warwick was unabashed. “Perhaps not but I couldn’t resist showing our enemies up for nincompoops. They never touched me.”
“You encountered no trouble?”
“Nothing to speak of.” Warwick turned to his companion, waiting respectfully beside him. “Your Grace, my lords, this is Andrew Trollope, and these are his men, the cream of the Calais garrison, two hundred of the finest soldiers in Europe.”
The Duke accepted Trollope’s unpracticed bow with a curt nod.
“It looks like you’re a little crowded. Do I get a decent bed at least?” Warwick said as they ascended the stairs to the great hall in that part of the castle called the north range. The stairs were made out of wood so they could be easily destroyed if the last line of defence, the keep, came under attack.
“We’ve managed to save you a mouse hole in the Mortimer Tower. I’ll have your things sent over. Your men will have to make shift as best they can, however. I hope they brought tents.”
“Has my father arrived?”
“Yes but, unlike you, not without incident, I’m afraid. He was intercepted at Market Drayton, where he proved that the old dog still has teeth – as he’s fond of saying. Although outnumbered he managed to put the enemy force to route. Some of his men gave chase rather too eagerly, including those two brothers of yours, and were cut off from their own force. They’ve been taken captive and held in Chester Castle.”
Warwick accepted this news with equanimity. “Has a ransom been agreed?” he asked, entering the great hall.
“No word yet, but I’m sure there’s no need for concern.”
Warwick wasn’t concerned about his brothers. If a nobleman or knight survived a battle and was taken prisoner, it was the well-established practice to hold him for ransom. These two, being Salisbury’s sons and Warwick’s brothers, were worth a groat or two to those who had captured them.
Warwick stiffened, seeing Lord Dudley, no friend of the Yorkists, sat at his ease among a group of dice players and appearing to be enjoying himself hugely. “What’s he doing here?” he demanded.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s sure
ty that your brothers will return to you intact. By the time his ransom is paid, I doubt he’ll want to go back to Margaret.”
Lord Dudley was obviously being treated well, as was generally the case, although not always. Warwick could only hope John and Thomas were in the hands of magnanimous keepers.
“It was from Dudley in fact that we learned the orders to attack your father came, not from Henry who hadn’t joined his army at that point, but from the Queen,” said York, leading the way through the crowded, noisy hall to the high table. “In truth, she appears to be very much in command.”
The great hall was the hub of castle life. Meals were taken there by all but the lower echelon servants. In a noble house, music played by minstrels in a gallery above often accompanied the meal, and entertainment was provided by an itinerant troupe that moved from one great house to the next. Often servants and lesser guests made their beds among the rushes that were spread on the floor, jostling for space next to the hearth. At any time of day, women sewed or gossiped and kept an eye on rampaging children. Men, at their leisure, engaged in board games, or cleaned and repaired their gear, or just idly chatted with their comrades or an itinerant stranger. Hounds took the best spots by the hearth and snarled over discarded bones during meals, and there might be a couple of hooded hawks on perches. The great hall was seldom a quiet place, but at Ludlow it echoed to the rafters with the roar of many voices, laughing, shouting and swearing, and reeked of too many unwashed bodies, stale wine and food.
York took his place at the head table and indicated the seat on his left. “Sit down and tell us of your journey. Will you have wine?”
“A bucketful, if you please,” said Warwick, and turned to greet his father. “Good to see you still in one piece, sir.”
“You too, son,” the old Earl said laconically.
“I believe I’ll stand at least until my rump returns to normal,” said Warwick. “These days I’m more accustomed to the gentle sway of a ship’s deck than the bouncing gait of a horse.” The remark was definitely an exaggeration, but it earned the approval of the crowd of knights gathered round, who awarded him a shout of laughter.
The wine duly arrived, though in a conventional goblet, and was quickly disposed of and refilled, before a serving wench appeared with a thick trencher of bread and a hearty mixture of mutton and turnips ladled over it.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Warwick managed before his father interrupted him.
“Well, you can begin by telling us why the devil you chose that route at all. It was begging for trouble. With ships at your disposal, why didn’t you sail along the south coast, around the tip of Cornwall into the Bristol Channel, or land at a port in South Wales, and then march north through the border country? That would have been the safe and prudent route. You wouldn’t have encountered any resistance.”
“Instead you chose to land in Kent and march through London,” York added. “Although the citizens are generally sympathetic, you couldn’t be sure which way they’d go if they had been ordered to keep you out. And you knew from my letter that the Queen was mustering men in the Midlands. Why take such a risk?”
“In fact, London gave me a warm welcome, loaned me money, heaped my waggons with provisions and sent me on my way with heartfelt best wishes,” Warwick said, unperturbed by the criticism.
But that really was no surprise. York had earned the Londoners’ goodwill by offering them the only chance of an honest and stable government, and Warwick had won their hearts with his generous almsgiving and by feeding the beggars who came to his door. The real danger lay not with London but in Warwick’s march through the Midlands, which had followed.
“Of course I knew they were amassing in the Midlands and I proceeded cautiously. But either they did not expect me to come that way, or they were not terribly vigilant, for I never caught a glimpse of them. There was one close encounter. While we rested at Colehill, we learned that Somerset was on his way, but we were gone before he arrived.”
At the lower table, an arm wrestling match was taking place between two enormous men-at-arms, and the spectators were wagering on the outcome. A shout went up as fists crashed to the board, a mix of cheers from the victors and groans from the losers. “Quiet!” York roared, and the crowd broke up and drifted away.
“My lord of Warwick thumbed his nose at our enemies in spectacular fashion,” Edward said with evident admiration.
York glared at him. Warwick winked and said: “I’ll admit that I wanted to show how incompetent are enemies are by choosing the more dangerous way.”
“Not prudent, when I was counting on those men,” York said huffily, leaving the distinct impression he would have said more if the venue hadn’t been so public.
Warwick turned to his father with a grin. “I hear you had a bit of trouble, sir.”
An experienced soldier, Salisbury took the precaution while on the march of sending out scouts so that he wouldn’t be surprised by an enemy attack. The men with him were tough, experienced fighters, tempered on the west marches of Scotland. On the night of the twenty-second of September, while camping about a mile and a half south of Market Drayton, his scouts brought him word that Lord Audley, a Cheshire man, with a superior force lay three miles to the west of Market Drayton. He also learned that Lords Audley and Dudley, two inexperienced men, were in command. Their position suggested to Salisbury that they were waiting to fall on his rear when he had passed by, probably in the morning. Not inclined to let that happen, he marched his force across the country, keeping it well hidden, and took up a strong defensive position opposite the enemy on the rise called Blore Heath. On his right flank, contrary to custom, he placed his waggons; the left was anchored by woods; in front was a stream, small and shallow, but still an impediment to an assault.
On they came. And then they stopped. Poised on the banks of the little stream, they seemed not to know what to do next. As they later learned from Lord Dudley, such was the case; he and Audley couldn’t agree on what to do. So Salisbury reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a well-tried tactic that might not have fooled more experienced commanders. He had his men start hitching horses up to the waggons. This manoeuvre was sufficient to convince the enemy that he was on the point of retreat, and Audley ordered what he thought to be the best response – a mounted charge. Salisbury could hardly believe his luck. He had many archers with him and, thanks to Audley’s incompetence, they had such large targets to send their missiles into that even the least skilled could hardly miss. Horses went down; others charged into them, stumbled and fell, breaking legs, crushing riders. Men went down too, and the riderless horses careened around the field creating further havoc.
“A disastrous mistake, that,” Salisbury told his riveted audience. “But then what do you think the poor fool did? He ordered a second mounted charge! Why is it that some men are unable to learn from their mistakes? Of course, it fared no better than the first.”
Finally realising his mistake, Audley then ordered a charge on foot, but by this time his men had seen their comrades being slaughtered in two separate charges, while Salisbury’s men sat on their rise unscathed. They made a gallant effort but could not overcome that initial setback and the unfavourable ground. Salisbury’s men drove them off the field and chased them all night. Lord Audley was killed, Lord Dudley captured.
“I was lucky, too,” he said to his son. “I didn’t know until Dudley told me later that Lord Stanley was lurking in the vicinity. He was supposed to join the battle but chose not to - probably because his little brother had brought some men to join me. If he had supported Audley, the outcome might have been very different.”
Warwick popped the last of the gravy-soaked bread into his mouth. “So, now that we’re all assembled and the enemy, having fired the opening salvo, is almost on the doorstep, what do we do?”
“We’ve been told to expect your lady’s uncle, the Bishop of Salisbury,” York said. “He will offer us amnesty. If we submit within six days, we are assu
red of a full pardon for ourselves and all our men except a few who were at Blore Heath.”
“Empty rhetoric. I hope we’re not going to accept.”
“Not a chance. The King may be well intentioned, but his word means nothing when he’s got the Queen bending his ear.”
“True!” said Warwick. “We’ve seen ample evidence of that in the past.”
Andrew Trollope spoke up, his tone a curious mixture of diffidence and defiance. “I have told my lord of Warwick that me and my lads won’t fight the King. We’re loyal men. We won’t fight the King.”
York frowned at him, obviously annoyed that such a low-born fellow would presume to intrude on the conversation of his betters, and he replied coldly, “You have no need to fear on that score, Master Trollope. As you have surely gathered from our conversation, we are only defending ourselves against the aggression of the Queen and her unscrupulous advisors. We too are the King’s true men and have no intention of fighting against him.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, my lord,” said Trollope uncertainly.
Interesting, thought Warwick, as he finally took a seat and watched Trollope digging a forefinger into the hairy cavern of his right ear and then examining with interest whatever had been lurking there. Was that empty rhetoric too, for Trollope’s benefit? What would York do? Submit as he had at Blackheath when he had found himself arrested the same day, or fight as he had at St. Albans and try to weather the storm that would follow? If he wasn’t prepared to fight the King, how did he propose to get out of this one, for if an army came anywhere near Ludlow, Warwick would wager every groat he had that it would be hiding behind the figurehead of the King. How would it be possible to defend themselves without giving the appearance of being in arms against the King? It seemed that York had got himself into a situation from which there was no honourable means of escape. And with the Duchess and children here. It was an impossible situation. Had he realised it yet?
This Sun of York Page 26