THE WAY seemed clear as we left Brecknock: straight east to Hereford. No piddling villagers would question the purpose of the High Constable of England. The only difficulty would be the crossing of the river Severn because the bridges were few.
My cheeks were still moist from my little daughters’ kisses but I had Ned and his nursemaid with us so no one could use him as a hostage against me. My little lad was full of questions as he rode with Uncle Knyvett. God willing, I though, you will be Prince of Wales before by the Feast of All Saints in November.
But then the rain began. The Black Mountains, visored by low clouds, disappeared from sight in less than an hour and the golden leaves and vibrant coverlets of the fields shed all hue as though some apprentice launderer had boiled the vat. Our world shrank from a beauteous, broad valley to a grey passage walled by thickets spiky as the Blessed Christ’s crown of thorns, and beyond that a nothingness. Many of the Welshmen grew fearful, crossing themselves and muttering to St Alud for her protection lest the Wild Hunt hurtle out of the fog.
When my horse stumbled in a rut outside of Bronllys, and the cursed rhymer in our company conjured the incident into a portent, I halted the column in the red mud. Devil take it! If I could address parliament, I could surely deal with a host of superstitious fools.
‘Good Friends and Comrades-in-arms, remember the story of how William the Bastard stumbled as he landed on the beach at Pevensey. Did his cause fail? No, he became King of England. Friends, use your wits. If a man is doomed to misfortune every time his horse slips on this shit of a road then this realm will be a country of beggars.’
I looked down the column of pikes and halberds, wondering whether it would have been quicker to have hanged the rhymer on the nearest elm rather than give these louts a history lesson. Half of them were swineherds and delvers with brains as small as walnuts. Oh well.
‘I promise you this,’ I exclaimed. ‘There are rewards to be had. Knighthoods and riches for those who march with me this day. I cannot change the weather, good friends, but I can change your fortunes.’
My captains cheered and then every man was huzzahing.
‘And now,’ I roared, ‘for Sweet Christ’s Sake, let us get out of this stinking mud and get to England as fast as we may. Forward!'
We made camp that night towards Glasbury. It was a mistake; we all rose damp and short of temper to pack up in the pouring rain. In fine weather, we should have reached Hereford in a couple of days; now we would be lucky to manage ten miles a day. Brooks that pissed little in summer were now full-bladdered. But there was other mischief afoot: saddle girths broke, tethered barrels rolled mysteriously from their canvas moorings, and a wheel came off one of the hindmost carts. Had we brought the guns, the mud would have sucked them down like a monstrous incubus.
Just past Glasbury, Limerick informed me that the wagon with the mended wheel had not caught up with us and that some of the men were missing. Well, in such conditions, I was not surprised but Morton snuffled up that little morsel.
‘Desertion?’ he suggested, edging his horse up beside mine. Foolish man! It was not helpful and he had those around me glancing at one another uneasily.
I was not in the best of tempers. Heavy gobs of water were splashing down my helm, spilling onto my sodden cloak, seeping down beneath my collar.
‘I thought you and God were allies, Bishop Morton. Perhaps you’d have a polite word with Him about improving the weather.’
Behind the waterfall trimming his broad-brimmed hat, his expression was most discomforted. ‘What I am praying for, Buckingham, is a good dinner and clean, dry sheets but I daresay that is not in the offing.’
‘Why not?’ I retorted with mock cheer. ‘Perhaps we should halt and offer prayers, my lord.’ I flung up my arm and the entire army rattled to a standstill. For once the old rascal was caught off guard. He should have thanked me for it; few men can surprise John Morton with a fresh experience.
‘I hardly think the men will be in a reverent frame of mind, your grace,’ he countered, and sighed in relief as we resumed the march.
My wretched soldiers, pathetic as soaked sheep in their dripping brigandines, tramped until twilight with the mud fastening round their ankles like manacles at every step. By the time we reached Hay, they were glad to disperse among the cottages for warmth. I put up at The Three Tuns. The landlord was so fulsome in his praise of our new king that we had to tell him that our army was for Richard’s invasion of France.
It was still pelting hard next morning and we were all saddled up ready to move off when the cry of ‘Messenger!’ went up. I expected to behold the horseman approaching from the east but he had come from behind us, an old man who had been left behind to serve the garrison at Brecknock. I noticed with an icy feeling in my guts that he rode Cat’s mare.
‘God save your grace,’ he gasped, dismounting and stumbled over to clutch my stirrup. Those closest saw the spreading bruise upon his forehead.
His message spewed out like vomit and I hauled him into the inn before his tidings infected every Jack in my company: tidings that Vaughan of Tretower, the fornicating bastard, was bombarding my castle with cannonballs. What’s more, the rogue had sent a company after us to pick off the stragglers. It was only when they were attacking the poor devils mending the wagon that the old messenger had managed to skirt around them and get through to warn us.
‘My guns!’ I exclaimed, sinking on to a settle in utter shock. ‘The whoreson is using my guns.’
‘Do you want to send back a detachment?’ asked Delabere but I felt Morton’s cynical gaze upon me.
‘No!’ I answered. Cat was capable when she roused herself. I could trust her to take care of our children, the rent rolls and all the fine possessions I had brought from London. ‘No going back, we have greater matters ahead.’
‘I do not like the smell of this, Harry,’ whispered Uncle Knyvett, catching up with me outside. ‘Are you sure we should not return to Brecknock while it’s still standing.’
‘You think we could hot foot it there in time in this deluge?’ I answered. ‘No, I do not think so, but what you can do, uncle, is take some of our best horsemen and slit the throats of any of Vaughan’s curs who are following us and round up any stragglers. We’ll wait for you at the bridge in Bredwardine.’
Uncle Knyvett is so blessedly efficient. His lads rejoined us long before we crossed the Wye boasting their swords had enjoyed a brisk but efficient excursion. Of course, some decent action was what the rest of my army expected. However, a respite from the pelting rain might suffice so we crammed into the church of St Andrew, adding crosses of holy water to our dripping foreheads.
The parish priest nearly had an apoplexy at the sight of armed men leaning against his font and sullying the floor tiles but when he realised we had a bishop snug among our breastplates, he began to wag his tail. So while he drooled over Morton’s ringfinger, I knelt in the gloom with Ned beside me and stared up with humility at the poor tormented face of crucified Christ frozen in perpetual agony on the Rood Screen.
Silently, I pledged a college, two colleges. By Heaven, I would found a blessed monastery, find some fledgling St Benedict to play the abbot, go on crusade! I’d do anything if only the sun would dry the roads. But Christ still looked agonised. All I heard in reply was the endless, endless rain spewing from the gargoyles.
Ned was awed and silent beside me. Brave little fellow. Away from his mother’s cloying care, he never whined at all but now he was shifting from knee to knee.
‘I need to go and pee,’ he whispered, pulling at my cloak, and then, shamefaced, he muttered, ‘Well, actually more than that.’
I rose and took his little hand, which was cold as a toad. The men managed smiles for us as we walked out through them. We found his blushing nursemaid in the porch walled in by Delabere’s arms in earnest conversation but she instantly slid back into her duty and hurried Ned off to do his business outside the churchyard wall.
‘So, is she willing to
grant you her favours?’ I asked Delabere, but instead of serving me his usual banter, he stood beside me like a stranger full of secrets. ‘Another Elizabeth Woodville, eh? A betrothal ring or naught?’
‘Her reputation is beyond rebuke, my lord.’
What had I said wrong? He had not even looked at me as he spoke. ‘Well, it is time to think about leaving. Play sheepdog, Dick, and whistle up our captains!’
Before we remounted, I jested with them, but my shoulders were tense inside my embroidered surcote. I just hoped sunshine was burnishing the kettle helms of the Woodville men of Maidstone and Ightham and a good wind was blowing Tudor’s hired sails to Dorset. And, if not, so be it. I’d manage. The cold of the earth might be seeping up through my soles, yet I was like a horse in the shafts of ambition – unable to turn.
We crossed the Wye as it frothed close beneath the timbers of the bridge then we marched northeast to join the Roman road that led direct to Hereford. The highway, though in disrepair, had retained many of its original stones and the ruts were not so deep. However, I began to grow suspicious when we passed no carts or riders journeying from Hereford and then, while the men were struggling to get the carts across Maddle Brook, one of the scouts, sent ahead of us the day before, returned and we took him aside.
No wonder there were no other travellers: one of my distant relations, Humphrey Stafford, curse him, was ahead of us, felling trees across the narrow stretches and setting bowmen ready to shower us with arrows when we tried to clear the route for the arms wagons.
‘Then let us avoid the main road,’ I exclaimed.
The weary scout shook his head. ‘My lord, I cannot advise it. Sir Humphrey has men on every road and lane into Hereford, and the city gates are closed against you. The King has offered a free pardon to any man who deserts your army and a reward of a thousand pounds or one hundred pounds’ worth of land to anyone who takes you prisoner.’
‘How very flattering.’
Uncle Knyvett gave a low whistle. ‘Lord God preserve us! If the King knows what is happening in Wales, then what of the risings in the south?’
Russhe cleared his throat. ‘I hate to be a dampener, my lord, but clearly this Vaughan fellow must have been prepared if he was ready to lay siege to Brecknock the moment we were a day’s march away.’
I could hardly tell my London friend to bite his tongue. ‘Fetch me the map!’ I commanded Limerick.
We stood beneath an oak tree but to prevent the ink from blotching, Bannaster and Pershall held a cered canvas above us. Not the splendid coronation canopy I had planned. This was tasselled by dripping rain and gilded with water.
‘If Hereford is blocking us, it is useless trying to pass to the south so I reckon our best chance is to go north to Weobley and still make for the bridge at Tewkesbury. We have to reach Dorset before the King’s force sweeps down on us.’
Latimer swallowed unhappily: ‘Christ forbid he is making better speed than us in this weather, my lord. But what if he is? Do you think we shall have to face him on our own?’
‘I wouldn’t know. He’ll have to send out commissions of array first.’ But in my mind, I knew that if he could put heart in his men like his brother used to, he would be upon us before we could draw breath let alone our swords. I looked intently upon each anxious face in the circle about me. ‘Good friends, we have to keep this army loyal. That is our dilemma for the present. Too many have deserted because of the weather and the news from home, and now if word of this gets around…’
‘It will, it will,’ put in Uncle Knyvett dismally.
‘Pay them,’ interrupted the smooth voice of Morton. I do not know how long he had been standing there listening to every word for he had been napping in one of the wagons when we had halted. ‘I’ve been doing a reckoning. Your army is bleeding men.’
‘Our army, my lord bishop.’ I corrected, staring at the map. I did not need this Jonah and I cursed that I had ever heeded him. ‘I know what we shall do,’ I declared at last and looked around at my captains with a grin. ‘What if tonight we sleep at Lord Ferrers’ manor house at Wooton Devereux and grab some stock to replace the supplies we have lost? It lies in our path to Weobley and if Lord Ferrers is at home so much the better. We shall seize the house from him. It will restore the men’s morale. What say you?’ Their nods were heartening. I turned to Limerick. ‘Call the men together. I’ll announce it now.’
As I strode towards my horse, Morton puffed after me:
‘Buckingham, if you give me an escort, maybe I can get a ferryboat across the Severn and warn our friends of our circumstances.’
‘No, Morton, we stay together.’ He was my safeguard for Margaret Beaufort’s compliance.
MY MEN cheered when I promised them a hearty supper, a blazing fire to warm them to bed plus extra wages for the hardships they had endured, and then we took the road north skirting Garnon’s Hill.
It was hard going and the light was fading when we finally left the hollow way through the woods. On the rise, an ugly manor house squatted blackly with no warming light behind its windows, but in the field to the west there were sheep aplenty.
‘Ah, roast mutton!’ I exclaimed loudly. ‘Supper may be late but it will be worth waiting for.’
THE ANCIENT caretakers succumbed willingly to half-scabbarded arguments. We seeped past them into the darkening hall but alas the damned place was damp and as miserable as we were. Naked of tapestries, bereft of rushes, the walls were speckled and smelly with mould.
We bawled at Ferrers’ servants to kindle the dusty logs in the central hearth or be hanged for their failure. My men peeled off their wet brigandines and the pong of the vinegar they used against lice reeked through the hall. Once the manor’s supply of candles was raided, the light and warmth lifted our hearts somewhat, and with the aroma of Devereux mutton to titillate our nostrils, the men wrung their sodden shirts while the manor's steward wrung his hands. We ate hours after nightfall, greedily filling our bellies with the meat, for there was little else to go with it.
Pershall kindled a fire in the solar and there Lizbeth the nursemaid made up a temporary bed for my tired little boy. Ned had been stoic despite the rain and hours in the saddle and I was proud of him.
Morton dozed off by the hearth in the hall and I was relieved not to have his company. Instead, I sat by my slumbering child, wondering where my royal cousin slept that night.
The rain, oh Christ, if only the beat upon the roof would cease,
FOR several days, we lingered at Wootton Devereux. The rain continued without mercy. It was impossible to return across the Wye and word reached us that the Severn River had burst its banks. The chapman, who brought us the news, said that such a flood had not been seen for decades; with awe he told us how he had seen great beasts struggling in midstream and a wooden cradle, with the mewling babe still in it, rocking on the surge amidst the shattered planks of its mother’s dwelling.
But this weather could not last forever. I thought of raising my banner and proclaiming myself king once the sun showed its face but the truth was we could do naught until the floodwaters fell. Our opportunity of reaching the south before the day of the rising was gone.
On the morning of 16th October, Delabere and Uncle Knyvett came purposefully into the solar.
‘Where’s Ned?’ I demanded.
‘Collecting mushrooms from the sheep pasture. No, calm yourself, Harry. He can discern the toadstools.’ A restraining hand fell heavily on my shoulder. Uncle Knyvett wore a grim determination that boded ill. ‘I want you to listen to me.’ He glanced at his fellow knight for support. ‘Delabere and I have been doing some serious talking. You have to admit it’s all up with us.’
‘Devil’s weather!’ They were about to spoon some poisonous decision down my throat.
Uncle Knyvett cleared his throat. ‘You’re a man grown and can shift for yourself, Harry, but the boy is another matter. Delabere’s castle at Kinnersley isn’t that far from here.’
‘You are sugg
esting we march on to there?’
‘No, your grace.’ Delabere was swift to disagree. ‘I suggest I take your son there, away from his enemies.’
I was completely floored. ‘Enemies!’ I spluttered. ‘What nonsense is this? The King would not let him come to harm.’
‘That’s just it.’ Delabere glanced suspiciously at the closed door before he lowered his voice. ‘King Richard would not, I'll warrant you, but there’s others as might. If aught goes amiss with King Richard then your son will be a rival to that bastard Tudor.’ He saw the pained astonishment in my face. ‘I’ve followed you in everything, my lord, whether I’ve thought you were right or not but…’
‘But this is no place for a child.’ Uncle Knyvett stared me down. ‘You have to let him go to safety.’
‘I endanger my son?’ Pain throbbed through every syllable. I turned to the mantle and stared up at Ferrers’ greyhound device. Their silence was my answer. ‘I see.’ It took me a moment to compose myself to face them before I turned. ‘You realise if you do this, Dick, it will take the heart out of every man left to me?’
The lack of compassion in his eyes stoned me. ‘With your grace’s consent, we’ll leave early tomorrow before everyone is awake.’
I swallowed, forcing myself to be realistic. ‘Kinnersley may be too close. Once the rivers are passable, every bounty hunter in the Marches will be out.’
‘My lord, if that is so, we shall disguise Lord Stafford as a little maid and move him further north.’
I wanted to argue. I wanted to keep Ned with me. Instead, I nodded and turned back to the mantle, playing the brisk commander. ‘So be it.’
‘Harry. Harry.’ The soft plea forced me to look round. Christ! Only a blindman could have ignored the battle of emotions in my beloved uncle’s face.
‘You want to go with them, uncle?’ I kept my voice calm and reasonable but, Heaven be my witness, I should have liked to break Delabere’s teeth for this. Without William Knyvett…
The Devil in Ermine Page 27