“Men! My father, brother, uncle and cousin were treacherously slain at Wakefield. Never speak of Wakefield as a battle. It was a heinous crime against God, man and common decency. The breaking of a truce, the murder of prisoners, the desecration of the dead – these things were unknown in the England of our day until the Queen and her minions introduced them.” Unconsciously, he curled his hand into a fist and shook it in the air. “I will have vengeance!”
The men received his words with a shout of assent that soon swelled to a full-throated roar. Startled by the noise, Edward’s horse tossed its fine head and sidled, jostling those close by, and he leant down to gentle it negligently as he surveyed the faces around him. He had them in the palm of his hand; a new confidence flowed into him and sang in his blood.
When he had obtained silence once more, he shouted, “The infamy of our enemies knows no bounds. They are callous and conscienceless beyond measure. No device is too wicked for them to embrace if they think it will advance their foul endeavours. We have now learned that our Queen has entered into a pact with our ancient enemies of Scotland. That same army of Scots that has been busy on the border attacking our northern castles will come to England, and they will burn our crops, pillage our homes, and abuse our wives and daughters. Unbelievably, unconscionably, unpardonably, the Queen has given them leave to wreak havoc south of the Trent. And what is to be Scotland’s reward for all this aid? Berwick, nothing less than Berwick – that mighty guardian of our border!” A low rumble began, sounding like a hive of angry bees, amplified a thousandfold. Edward spoke over it. “Perhaps we are too few to stop them. But if we don’t fight, who will? If we don’t fight, the heathen Scots will overrun our towns and villages and destroy our people. You and I are the only ones who can stop them.” The noise rose again, almost drowning out Edward’s final words. “I know I’m young but I’m not untried. I will lead you!” There was no hope of being heard. He sank back into the saddle as his little army whooped and whistled, stamped their feet and smacked their hands together. Edward gazed at them, unsmiling. He was well-pleased.
“Marvellous,” Hastings remarked to Stafford.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Stafford drawled.
Dismounting, Edward handed his reins to a groom and turned toward the great hall, steeling himself to enter the castle where Edmund’s memory was superimposed on every stone.
Chapter 52
January-February 1461 – Ludlow Castle, Shropshire
Sir William Herbert rode into Ludlow with a welcome four hundred men. Saving the Lancastrian Earl of Pembroke, he was the most influential and powerful man on the marches and in South Wales, and his support was worth a great deal to Edward.
“I would have been here earlier but I ran into the foulest weather between the Long Mynd escarpment and Wenlock Edge,” he explained, dismounting. “It was quite impassable, so I sought shelter with John Wenlock. He’ll be here shortly.” He paused. “My lord, I heard about the slaughter at Wakefield. A shameful business. I’m deeply sorry for your losses.”
“Thank you, Will,” Edward said soberly.
“So, we must talk.”
“Later. Go and get your men settled.”
Edward let his eyes wander over the bailey. It was in good order. There had been no desertions or insubordination and no more than the usual amount of mischief. Thank God for competent captains. But the men were undoubtedly growing restless; they needed action, and the weather didn’t help. Snow was followed by several days of dreary drizzle, turning the ground underfoot to mire. He had always thought of this army as his father’s; his only task was to muster it and then march it to wherever his father decided it could be used to best advantage. Now it was his and the responsibility was his. He didn’t quite know what to do with it. What would Warwick want him to do? Although he was now nominally the leader of the Yorkist party, he had no compunction about subordinating himself to Warwick until he had gained more experience, confidence and years.
And what would the Queen do? That was easier. If she was to have any power at all, she must repossess herself of the King and the capital. Detaching one part of his mind, Edward considered her for the first time without the myth and prejudice that he had been spoon fed since infancy. A woman and a Queen, with all the restrictions of her sex and rank, she had managed to assemble about her a group of prominent noblemen who, while paying lip service to the cypher that was Henry, were undoubtedly loyal to her. Perhaps even as a child she had been spoiled and willful, used to having her own way, or manipulating her parents and adoring brother until she got it. Upon her marriage, she would have been envious and suspicious of York as Henry’s heir. With that detached part of his mind, he could understand that. And then had come the barren years. How could he as a man, a man with a healthy libido, begin to understand what she must have suffered, how embittered she must have become by Henry’s neglect? One thing he knew: A woman’s spirit was never more vulnerable than when she was in bed with a man. She must have been desperate for an heir of her body to replace York. Desperate enough to lie with Somerset? Possibly. In the privacy of his own mind, he found it hard to believe that a queen could stoop so low. But no matter the truth of his parentage, it was the birth of Edward of Lancaster that had turned Margaret into the kind of animal that was ferocious and pitiless in defence of her cub.
So the tilt for power escalated. She was more than a match for his father who was at heart a decent and honourable man pushed beyond the brink by a particularly virulent brand of hatred and bitterness, and an enemy that was inviolate, to the point where he felt he had no choice but to make that ill-advised grab for the throne. That act must have put another callus on a heart already toughened by the vicissitudes of life. How terrified she must have been to learn that her son’s golden future had been effectively obliterated by an act of parliament and with the compliance of the King. But how quickly she had recovered lost ground. As she had so ruthlessly demonstrated recently, she was capable of any effort, any cruelty, to protect her son and his inheritance. She was a formidable foe.
His reflections reminded him that the act of parliament that had robbed Edward of Lancaster of his golden future had bestowed it on Edward of York. That was not an unpleasing thought, but the likelihood seemed too remote, and the obstacles that lay between the present and that golden future too enormous, to afford him much in the way of gratification.
Returning to his bedchamber, he found Hastings there, studying a half-finished letter he was writing, asking an acquaintance in York to arrange for the ransom of Sir Robert Aspall, who had been with Edmund when he died on Wakefield Bridge. Risking his own life, Sir Robert had screamed ‘Murderer!’ at Clifford until, out of kindness perhaps, his captors had knocked him senseless.
“He was Edmund’s tutor. Edmund was fond of him,” Edward said, closing the door behind him.
Hastings’ ears went crimson, but he shrugged it off. Edward knew what an infernal busybody he was and accepted him that way.
“John Wenlock is here, Will. There are still a couple of small fry who haven’t arrived but I’m going to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume the bad weather has held them up. In any case, we can consider the muster complete. It’s time for a war council. Might as well hold it here since it’s the only private place in the castle. I’ll want you here too.”
His bedchamber was large but sparsely furnished, with only a couple of chests for his clothes, a small table and chair, a clothes press, a bird perch, a wash stand and of course the great bed, eight feet long and just as wide that he had shared with Edmund since infancy. He had never slept alone since returning to Ludlow. Every night he invited one of his friends to share his bed.
Servants came in carrying stools, which they set near the fire, as well as pewter pitchers of wine and water and several cups. They were soon followed by Lord Audley, Lord Grey of Wilton from Herefordshire, Lord Fitzwalter from Norfolk, Sir John Wenlock, Sir Walter Devereux, Sir William Herbert, and one of hi
s half-brothers, Sir Roger Vaughan and several more of the chief barons of the marches. Everyone crowded informally around the fire, either sitting or standing.
Even before these men met for a strategy session, Edward was aware that there were already two schools of thought. The marcher barons, not unnaturally, wanted to remain in the area to dispose of the threat to their possessions posed by the Earl of Pembroke, while the rest, those who had followed him from London, felt that Margaret and her northern horde posed a far greater danger.
“I’ll speak first, if I may,” Lord Audley began at once. “Here’s my thinking.” Pounding a fist into the other palm for emphasis, he said, “We have to go to the aid of my lord of Warwick. As I see it, he has two choices: to lock the city up tight and deny Margaret entry, or to round up any citizens willing to fight and intercept her somewhere to the north. London is not impregnable, although I should think it couldn’t be taken without a prolonged assault. But the danger comes from within, for although the city is generally for us, there are still elements of opposition that would work against us. Also, the suburbs outside the walls would become a slaughterhouse. Warwick won’t risk it. He’ll defend the city from without. He’ll march to intercept the Queen somewhere to the north. As we know, she has a huge rabble of Scots with her. Warwick will need all the help we can give him if he’s to overcome them.”
“We have no idea how many men Lord Warwick can muster,” Humphrey Stafford said, “but we must assume he’ll be outnumbered. As are we, of course. Even with the two joined we’re still likely to be outnumbered and if we lose, I suspect it will be the end of us. But if we let her pass us by and come up behind her, whatever Warwick chooses to do, we’ll be in a position to attack from the rear, pinning her between us. From there we should be in a position to do a great deal of damage, as well as cut off her retreat. I think it’s our best hope.”
“What you’re suggesting,” Hastings said, wide-eyed, “is we put ourselves in the way of thousands of rampaging Scotsmen wanting to get home with their booty!”
“That pretty much sums it up,” Stafford said with a grin.
No matter his own preference in the matter, Edward had to face the reality that the marcher barons would be unlikely to follow him if it meant leaving the marches exposed to attack, and without them, he had no army. So he said: “What about Pembroke?”
“Exactly,” said Black Will Herbert. “What about Pembroke?”
“He’s a flea! Follow my plan and, assuming success, whatever threat he represents will disintegrate.”
“Bollocks!” Will Herbert turned from Stafford to Edward. “My lord, the marches are the base of your power. Never again must they be subjected to the kind of despoliation suffered after the Rout of Ludlow.”
This was a point of view that Edward couldn’t fail to appreciate. After Ludlow, there had been reprisals. Some men were fined, some suffered confiscation and some had their lands ravaged by hostile neighbours. The Yorkist castles had been stripped of their guns. It was an overlord’s duty to protect those who owed fealty to him and if he failed to do so, they would feel justified in refusing to serve him or to follow him to war. If there was a veiled threat in the words, it wasn’t one to be taken lightly. The Herberts were a powerful enough family in the marches to challenge the authority of an untried youth.
“Yes,” he said, “I understand that.”
“Pembroke’s army – if we can call it that – is intended to join the Queen,” Audley said positively. “He won’t want to waste time ravaging the marches. He’ll march directly to join her.”
With a snarled obscenity Herbert kicked over a stool. His brother Tom said, “And if you’re wrong it won’t be your lands suffer.”
“You’re concerned only with the marches!” Stafford said heatedly. “Meanwhile the Queen’s army has been given leave to ravage south of the Trent. Can you imagine what the Scots will do with such a mandate? They’ll go berserk!”
“What’s the latest word on Pembroke?” Edward asked Will Herbert, who was kept informed by the large and friendly Dwnn family who lived in South Wales.
“He’s still at Pembroke Castle. Most of his captains are his own esquires and none have any military experience, apart from two of the Scudamores who were at Agincourt. He has upward of two thousand men. My informants still insist he intends to campaign in the marches, with Ludlow and Wigmore as his first objectives.”
Audley threw out his hands. “How can he hope to take such fortresses with so few men except by prolonged siege? He can’t!”
“No, he can’t,” Herbert agreed, wagging his head. “But that’s what he intends to do. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I wonder,” Hastings murmured, “just what he thinks we’re going to do. He must know we’re here, just as we know where he is. He must know our numbers, just as we know his. He probably also knows that initially we were intended for the support of my lord of York, so what does he suppose we will do now? If you’re right, surely to God, he realises that if he makes any move against Ludlow and Wigmore, we’ll defend them.”
Will Herbert could only scratch his head in bafflement. Then he said, “He must suppose we’ll be marching to join Warwick as soon as possible. As soon as we’re gone, they’ll attack.”
The debate continued for a considerable time, but when it degenerated to the point where the two sides were merely reiterating the same old arguments, Edward intervened. It was important, he realised, that everyone understood that grief hadn’t so hobbled him that he was incapable of making sound decisions and taking whatever action the situation required. He was their leader now, and their lives, their families’ fortunes, and their futures were in his hands. Even Warwick must defer to him – at least in theory. He had written to Warwick asking, obliquely, what he should do, but no answer yet. He was somewhat apprehensive of the responsibility that had fallen on him, but he could not let anyone else know that.
“Let us consider the realities of the situation,” he said calmly and looked at Audley and those who supported his point of view. “If we march either to join Warwick or to intercept the Queen, we leave a hostile army at our backs. Always a dangerous strategy. And what the consequences of that might be should we come against the northern army, only God in His infinite wisdom knows.”
“Believe me, this is not a man we want at our backs,” agreed Herbert, who knew the man and his mettle better than any of them and had tussled with him on occasion for dominance in South Wales.
“Furthermore, if Pembroke joins the Queen, as you suppose is his purpose, his men will be only a few among many and will be unlikely to make a difference in any confrontation. On the other hand if, as Herbert supposes, his purpose is to take Ludlow and Wigmore and overrun the marches, he will have succeeded in dealing us a severe blow. We’ll be cut off from all our resources and I will lose my power base. And that, I think, is what he intends to do.”
The marcher barons murmured assent, as pleased by the crisp analysis as the conclusion, while the rest accepted the decision with good grace.
“But I repeat,” Audley said, “how can he hope to accomplish so much with only two thousand men?”
“He’s expecting reinforcements,” Hastings said suddenly.
Herbert nodded. “That’s possible. But who, and from where?”
No one had an answer to that. After a pause, Edward said, “Well, the answer will come in time. We’ll do nothing precipitate. I suggest we divide the men with us between Ludlow and Wigmore for comfort and ease of provisioning. Then we wait to see what happens.”
……….
Two mornings later Edward led half his army out of Ludlow on the eight-mile march to his castle of Wigmore. Here and there were small farmsteads with flocks of sheep nearby, for this was good grazing land and produced an abundance of wool both for domestic use and export to foreign markets. The grass was still green and sweet in spite of heavy snowfalls. It was just approaching Sext, Edward guessed after a fruitless search of the sky for an elus
ive sun, when a courier from Warwick found them. It was a good time to stop and eat. Since they were in no particular hurry, there was no need for the men to eat on the march, and they sank down beside the road, looking for dry spots in which to rest and eat whatever their packs provided.
Nearby was the ruin of some ancient dwelling, with nothing left standing higher than a man’s knee except the chimney. Turning his horse loose, Edward followed the path through a grove of spindly apple trees, up to the derelict house. It stood on the crest of a hill commanding spectacular views of the valley, through which the River Teme wound. The land around undulated and rippled like the creases in a woman’s gown. North, the Shropshire Hills, Edmund’s and his boyhood playground, were a blur of humps, hardly distinguishable from the clouds. To the west, atop a long ridge was a farmhouse, with a flock of sheep dotting the slopes below and the forest of Clun spreading like a dark stain behind it. The peaks of the Cambrian Mountains, just visible, were ribboned with snow.
He sat on the tumbled stones beside the doorway. Richard Herbert offered him a strip of dried beef and withdrew to a respectful distance. Breaking the seal, with his thumbnail, he unfolded the letter and began to read as he ate.
After the usual greetings and commiserations, Warwick wrote:
‘Do not, I urge you, let the death of our kinsmen fill you with despair but rather harden your resolve.
You will have heard by now that the Queen is issuing southward with a rag-tag army of heathenish Scots. When I was a boy, growing up in Yorkshire, the Scot was a bogeyman, the stuff of nightmares. My brothers and I delighted in terrifying each other with tales of his pact with the devil and so forth. Well, he doesn’t have a tail or horns, and he’s almost as human as you and I. I say almost because I’m convinced there’s still a fair bit of the savage beast left in him. I think the citizens here still hold to my boyhood view of him as a bogeyman. They are terrified. It’s said Margaret has given the Scots leave to plunder south of the Trent. She approaches Nottingham as I write, so we shall soon discover the truth.
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