Edward felt weary just looking at him. Unlike his brother, who had not yet seen action, he had fought in three battles. Of these, Towton was by far the worst. The memory of thousands of Englishmen butchering each other in the middle of a snowstorm would never be expelled from his nightmares.
He craved peace. To stop up the bleeding wounds of ruinous civil wars, make laws, encourage trade, father sons to inherit the land after him. Be a king, not a bloody-handed slaughterer of his own people.
The royal army had progressed another three miles before the scouts came galloping down the highway. They brought nothing to ease the king’s discomfort.
“The rebels have dispersed, sire,” one of them reported, “the soldiers were ordered back to their homes, while Fitzhugh and Salkard have fled north. There is no army left to fight at Ripon.”
Gloucester cursed and banged his armoured thigh in frustration, but Edward felt profoundly relieved.
“Thank God,” he said, “but we are minded to leave the common men alone. Fitzhugh and Salkard must be captured, if possible.”
“They will make for the border,” said Lord Hastings, “the Scots are ever willing to gather our English traitors into their bosom.”
“Take the knights of the vanguard and ride ahead to Ripon,” Edward commanded him, “follow the trail of the fugitives until dark, and then return to the town, with or without them, to report to us.”
He rapped out his instructions with the clear, cool-headed decisiveness that men expected of him. His gloom had lifted, and he shook his fist encouragingly at his knights as they galloped past.
Edward’s good mood didn’t last. The shadows of paranoia and mistrust soon descended on him again as the army marched into Ripon, to be greeted with enthusiastic cheers by the citizens. He accepted their acclaim with his usual bluff, offhand charm, but drew little comfort from it. Doubtless they had been cheering the arrival of the rebel army, just hours before.
The king and his part made their lodgings in the centre of the town, inside the dwelling of a wealthy merchant who claimed to be only too pleased to give up his house for the night.
Before dinner, Edward’s esquire helped him peel off his armour in an upstairs chamber. Gloucester was present, and paced agitatedly back and forth while his brother gratefully shed the layers of metal.
“It makes no sense,” said Gloucester, “why raise a rebellion, and then abandon it just as quickly?”
The question had occurred to Edward. “Only Fitzhugh and Salkard can tell us that,” he said, “damn Salkard. I made the bastard Constable of Carlisle, and this is how he repays my good faith. I thought him a solid man, but he’s just another mealy-mouthed turncoat.”
Gloucester stopped pacing and jabbed a finger at his brother. “It’s a distraction,” he said, “Fitzhugh is Warwick’s brother-in-law. I wager they have been in correspondence.”
Edward sighed and bent his tired mind to this possibility. He was well aware of Warwick’s machinations across the Channel. Several weeks ago, and with the connivance of King Louis, the earl had met with the wretched Margaret of Anjou at Angers. There he had knelt before his former enemy and pledged loyalty to her.
It had amused Edward to hear that she kept Warwick on his knees for a good fifteen minutes before deigning to even notice him. Less amusing was the knowledge that Margaret had finally accepted his oath of loyalty, and that the gruesome pair had sealed an alliance with King Louis. Warwick had set about assembling an invasion force, paid for with French money, to invade England and tip Edward off his hard-won throne.
His thoughts turned guiltily to the madman in the Tower. Henry VI, now plain Henry of Lancaster, was still a potent focus and a symbol for the Lancastrians in exile and at home.
They might not have invested so much faith in their sainted idol if they could see him: emaciated and red-eyed, stinking to high heaven in the grubby smock and hair shirt he refused to discard. He spent most of his waking hours on his bony knees in prayer, the rest of the time curled up on his narrow bed, gently rocking back and forth, or staring vacantly at the wall. Henry’s tainted Valois blood, inherited from his mother, had finally overthrown what little reason he had ever possessed.
As so often, Gloucester was able to read his brother’s thoughts. “You must kill Henry,” he said urgently, “do away with the fool. Put him out of his misery, and ours. Once he is gone, his French queen and her whelp will not be able to command the loyalty of so many good Englishmen.”
“No!” Edward replied angrily, “for one divinely appointed king to murder another, even a madman, is to question the will of God. That way lies chaos. You will not speak of the matter again, to me or anyone else. Do you understand?”
Their eyes locked. Gloucester broke first, and turned away to study the fireplace. Fortunately Edward’s esquire had left the room before Gloucester made his appalling suggestion. Otherwise the boy would have had to be bribed (or worse) to ensure he did not repeat what he heard.
Edward took a long draught of wine and studied his brother’s back. Gloucester was slightly deformed by a twist in his spine that made his right shoulder a couple of inches higher than the left. The disparity was very slight, but ever since childhood it had been enough to make people stare and make the sign against evil: physical abnormality, so many believed, was a gift from the Devil.
The king’s anger turned to pity. Gloucester’s twisted spine and short stature had always made him feel inadequate, and driven him to excel at horsemanship and the knightly arts. Unlike the false Clarence, Gloucester was fiercely loyal to his kin, and equally fierce to any that threatened the House of York.
Too fierce, perhaps. The art of compromise, in Edward’s experience, was as vital as any.
“Warwick will not dare try anything yet,” he said, changing the subject, “Arundel is overseeing our defences at Dover and the Cinque Ports. Our fleet is blockading every French port. Our enemies can march up and down and make as much noise as they like. They will not set foot on English soil.”
His brother merely grunted in reply. Ignoring Gloucester’s sullen mood, Edward tossed down the last of his wine and contemplated dinner with a glow of pleasure.
All would be well. He felt sure of it.
Chapter 6
Angers, France
Martin’s destrier was a skittish beast, and pawed the earth nervously as he held his lance upright against the saddle and saluted his opponent.
“Keep still, damn you,” he muttered inside the stifling warmth of his padded tilting helm. The horse was a gift from the Earl of Oxford, who had recently joined Warwick and Queen Margaret in Angers.
Oxford’s generosity stemmed from his prior dealings with Martin’s brother, James. The two men had worked closely together in England to help undermine the Yorkist regime, and the earl, who was of a naturally cheerful and benevolent disposition, appeared to hold James in high esteem.
“Any brother of his is a friend of mine,” he had said when introduced to Martin, “I only wish I could have met your late brother, God rest him. The Boltons are a brave family.”
Martin was grateful for the friendship and favour of a nobleman he could admire - Oxford was renowned as a fine soldier and a truly diehard Lancastrian – but could have wished for a finer product of his stables.
Ash, as he had named her after the pale grey colouring of her flesh, looked well enough, as sleek and muscular a warhorse as any man could wish for. Martin’s joy at obtaining such a fine bit of horseflesh for nothing quickly soured as he proved to be bad-tempered, difficult to control, and infuriatingly timid.
Martin’s opponent, a slender and elegant figure mounted on a high-stepping white destrier, stood waiting patiently at the opposite end of the tiltyard. He was encased in silver armour, engraved and decorated in the latest German style, but Martin could imagine the smirking face under the visor.
“Fail me now,” Martin said, leaning down slightly so Ash could hear, “and you will end your days as supper for the King of Fran
ce’s wolfhounds. Think on that.”
The silver knight returned Martin’s salute, and lowered his lance to a horizontal position. There was no herald to signal the beginning of the joust – the wooden stands that lined the tiltyard were empty save for one French sergeant-at-arms – but the jousters clapped in their spurs at roughly the same time.
To Martin’s relief, Ash did not refuse or swerve away from the encounter, but did her master’s bidding and surged into a trot. He urged her into a canter, knowing that speed at the moment of impact was vital.
Martin’s tilting helm was like a great steel bucket stuffed with straw and leather. The breathing holes bored into the metal were scarcely adequate. Nor was the visor that restricted his vision to a narrow slit. Ash’s pounding gait caused him to jerk up and down in the saddle, and he was hard-pressed to keep his wavering lance and onrushing opponent in focus.
It was many months since Martin had practiced with lance and shield on the exercise-field outside Heydon Court. He had never been much of a jouster. His giant stature and long reach made him more suited to sword-play or fighting on foot. Despite that, he had not been able to refuse this challenge.
He gritted his teeth and threw his entire weight into the collision. That, as his old drillmaster Hodson used to hammer into his head, was the secret to unhorsing your opponent.
“It takes a brave man to deliberately risk life and limb in the joust,” Hodson had said, “most men flinch or hang back a little. Those who can master their fear usually become champions of the lists.”
At the last moment, Ash’s courage failed. She plunged to her left, throwing Martin off-balance, and he received the full force of his opponent’s lance square on his breastplate. The lance shattered. A whirling cloud of fragments blinded him, and the world lurched crazily as he was hurled out of his saddle.
He landed on his face in the dirt, and lay supine for a few seconds, half-stunned and praying fervently that he was unhurt. This was no duel to the death, and the other knight would allow him time to gather his strength.
When he felt able, Martin cautiously rose to his knees and fumbled with the straps of his helm. His steel fingers were clumsy, and they trembled slightly, but after some cursing he managed to loosen the buckles and tear the suffocating weight from his head.
Light and air engulfed him. He threw away the helm, peeled off one of his gauntlets and wiped his eyes. Mercifully, none of the bits of the shattered lance had got through his visor.
“Are you all right? Nothing broken, I trust?”
Prince Edward’s voice was full of concern for his newest friend. Martin glanced up at him, the slender, well-made figure in gleaming armour, every inch a knightly paladin. The prince’s visor was raised, and his handsome features looked down at Martin with genuine anxiety.
Martin forced a smile. “Just my pride, Majesty,” he said, getting shakily to his feet.
Edward smiled. “The daughter of a mare has failed you,” he said, inclining his head towards Ash, who had wandered off to sulk in a corner, “but your father’s sword never shall.”
Martin winced, and the prince instantly realised his mistake. “God help me, I am sorry,” he said, “I didn’t think…it is just a saying.”
The prince had briefly forgotten that the sword once wielded by Martin’s father was lost, discarded somewhere on Towton field when Richard Bolton escaped the rout and destruction of the Lancastrian army.
The actual sword that Martin carried was a cheap, ill-balanced thing, snatched in haste from the armoury at Heydon Court on the night he and his kin had fled their home. His armour was a mixture of gear borrowed from the French, some of it quite antiquated. Like many of the Lancastrians-in-exile, Martin had fetched up on the shores of France with little money, and had to make the best of what he could get.
In his ill-assorted armour, he looked more like a common mercenary than a man of noble blood, and felt it. His brief experience as a pirate had given him a taste for adventure far beyond the narrow confines of life as a country gentleman in Staffordshire. Part of him longed to shake off the chains of duty and responsibility that kept him tethered to the failing cause of Lancaster and Henry VI. His better self always prevailed in the end, reinforced by his enduring love for Kate Malvern.
Martin often stood on the city walls at night and gazed north, wondering what was happening to his fiancée across the sea. Whether she had stayed true to her promise to him, or had given him up for lost and betrothed some other man.
The sergeant-at-arms who witnessed the joust fetched Ash and led her back to her master.
“Should I rub her down?” he asked with a wry smile, “or have her shot?”
“Take her to the stables,” said Edward before Martin could reply, “and mine as well.”
He handed the sergeant the reins of his horse, and took Martin’s arm.
“Come, let’s drink together,” said Edward. Knowing it was best not to refuse, Martin allowed himself to be led towards a bench at the foot of a high wall.
It was a hot day in late summer, but cool and shaded under the wall. Edward had set aside a jug of watered wine and two cups for their use. He invited Martin to sit, and set about pouring two measures.
“I’m sorry if you were hurt,” said Edward, handing Martin one of the cups, “my lord of Oxford is a fine man, but no judge of horses. A beast that won’t carry you into battle is no good at all. We shall have to find you another.”
“A toast,” he added, raising his cup, “to the confusion of our enemies across the water, and the restoration of the King in the Tower.”
Martin drank to that. His throat was dry from the exercise and the heat, and he was grateful for the refreshment.
He winced and rubbed his shoulder. He had bruised it badly when he fell. The pain would irritate him for days.
“You may be wondering,” said Edward, sitting down, “why I chose to befriend you. It is not every man who enjoys the favour of a future King of England.”
“I assumed it is because we are of an age,” Martin said politely.
In truth he had wondered at it. Ever since his arrival at Angers with the Earl of Warwick, the young prince had taken a liking to him, and insisted on his company. There were other youths at the palace provided by King Louis, but most were French, and Edward preferred to cultivate the friendship of Englishmen.
There was something else. Martin drank some more wine and studied the Lancastrian heir. He was only a year or so Edward’s senior, but felt like an old man beside this nervous, excitable chick, over-keen to impress the world with his courage and martial prowess.
“My mother thinks highly of your sister,” said Edward, giving Martin what he no doubt considered a shrewd look, “and likes to talk to her of an evening, after she is done with politics for the day. Did you know that?”
Martin nodded. The Queen did seem to favour Mary, but then she favoured all the wives and widows of Lancastrians who had followed her into exile.
Edward stared bleakly into his cup. “She doesn’t allow me into the council chamber. She says she wants me to remain pure and uncorrupted by politics for as long as possible. Not so pure, that she will hesitate to use me as a pawn.”
Martin thought he understood the meaning of this. As part of the unlikely pact between Warwick and the Queen, Edward’s mother had agreed to marry her son to Warwick’s daughter, Anne.
That meant the earl now had two daughters married into the royal bloodline. Martin was amused by Warwick’s naked ambition, but had no liking for him, and wished he had a better master.
Perhaps, when the time was right, he might ask James to speak in private to the Earl of Oxford. He could claw back some pride and self-respect by switching his allegiance to a true Lancastrian.
“Mother does confide in me sometimes, though,” said Edward, “she knows that your sister is a widow, and who her husband was. When I was just a child, we were forced to flee into the Welsh hills, after our army was destroyed at Northampton. Once we crosse
d the border, our servants betrayed us. They robbed us and plundered the baggage. I remember one foul brute stripping the rings from mother’s fingers. Can you imagine her despair?”
Martin had heard the story, but remained silent. The prince was in a mood to talk, and he knew enough to know that one did not interrupt royalty.
“Only one man stayed with us,” said Edward, “his name was Henry of Stafford. He was one of the old Duke of Buckingham’s bastards. You will remember him.”
The blow was unexpected. Martin’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment he couldn’t speak. Henry of Stafford was his sister’s late husband, slaughtered on the field at Towton. Martin had been just a child when Henry rode away to war for the last time, but vividly recalled his bluff, generous nature, and the depth of his love for Mary.
“That little dark-haired girl who follows your sister about like a puppy…” began Edward.
“She is Henry’s daughter,” Martin replied with difficulty, wiping his eyes, “her name is Elizabeth, after her grandmother. I did not know of the service Henry performed in Wales.”
Edward laid his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Your father, your brother, and your brother-in-law all ended on Yorkist blades,” he said quietly, “can there be a family in England that has spilled less blood in my cause? I cannot bring your murdered kin back to life, but vow to make amends to the living. When we have crossed the sea and rammed our swords down the usurper’s throat, I will heap you with lands and titles, Martin Bolton. You will be one of my most trusted advisors.”
Martin was grateful for the prince’s friendship, but not convinced that his fine promises would ever be carried out.
Warwick and his allies had managed to scrape together several thousand men, most of them supplied by King Louis, but they were trapped on dry land. The English fleet under Lord Howard had control of the seas, and blockaded the French ports where Warwick’s remaining ships were berthed.
The rebel lords assembled at Angers wearied Heaven with their prayers, beseeching God to send a storm to scatter the Yorkist fleet.
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