Adam swiftly unbuckled his sword-belt and cast it at Geoffrey. It landed on the flagstones before him with a clatter.
“Pick it up,” said Bulstrode in a tone that brooked no refusal.
Geoffrey stared at the weapon as though it was a live snake. They were going to make him fight. After all the years of shirking and play-acting and claiming the credit of better men, he was going to have to make a stand.
He gingerly reached down, grasped the hilt, and drew the sword from its brown leather sheath with a soft hiss. It had a good balance, and the steel was well-oiled and polished. Geoffrey could see his reflection in the blade. He gasped at the pallid, unshaven, wild-eyed countenance that stared back at him.
One of Bulstrode’s guards stepped forward. He was short, lean as a whippet, all whipcord and sinew. His cold grey eyes looked Geoffrey up and down, like a butcher weighing up a piece of meat before carving.
“This is William,” said Bulstrode, nodding at the guard, “he is the best sword and knife-man in my garrison. William, kill this traitor for me. As slowly as you please. Make him bleed.”
William nodded and flexed his narrow shoulders. “Yes, lord,” he said in a curiously high-pitched voice, drawing his sword.
The bread in Geoffrey’s stomach was threatening to come up again. “I won’t,” he whined, backing away as William padded towards him, “I won’t fight. You can’t make me.”
He dropped his sword and sagged onto his backside. Tears flowed down his cheeks.
William was perplexed. He stopped, cocking his head as he looked down at his reluctant opponent.
He shrugged. “Man won’t fight,” he said, turning to Bulstrode.
Bulstrode was outraged. His entire body seemed to swell, like a furious turkey-cock. His face reddened even further and acquired a blackish tinge.
“Won’t fight?” he roared, his eyes flashing pure hatred at Geoffrey, “won’t fight? How in God’s name did you ever win the favour of Edward of March, you excrement? When did Edward, may he die a thousand deaths, ever have time for cowards?”
Geoffrey was beyond speech. Pure terror had consumed him, robbing him of any pretence at dignity. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a frightened child, careless of the storm of jeers and insults.
Bulstrode’s rage shook the ancient rafters of the hall, but he didn’t order Geoffrey put to death. When his passion had abated slightly, he turned to his steward.
“Fetch me the Fool’s robe and cap,” he hissed between gritted teeth. The steward bowed and scuttled away to do his bidding.
“My Fool died last winter,” he said to Geoffrey, his voice oozing contempt, “and we have had no-one to amuse us since. I think we have just found his replacement.”
The steward returned swiftly, carrying a long, patched cloak made of some coarse material in his arms, and a leather cap with a pair of ram’s horns screwed into it. The cloak was grubby and moth-eaten and garishly dyed with a mixture of red, yellow and purple. It was also fringed with little silver bells that tinkled as the steward presented it to his lord.
“You will wear these,” Bulstrode said to Geoffrey, “all day and night, and entertain me at dinner. You will caper and sing, and degrade yourself before us in any way I see fit. From henceforth, no-one shall refer to you as Sir Geoffrey Malvern.”
He gave a lopsided smile, and stroked his moustache. “You are the Fool. That is all. Who are you?”
For a moment some faint spark of defiance inside Geoffrey revolted at this humiliation, but was quickly doused. Self-preservation overrode everything.
“I am the Fool, lord,” he said humbly, “just the Fool.”
Chapter 13
The Tower of London, 15thOctober 1470
Warwick rubbed his hands against the chill, and blew on them. It was a freezing cold day, of the sort that knifed through any layers of warm clothing, and he was reluctant to be outside.
Certain forms had to be observed. As the true ruler of England, since the restored Henry VI was incapable of wiping his own backside, never mind governing the country, he was required to be present at state executions.
A scaffold had been erected inside the castle grounds. The condemned man was standing in his night-shirt and hose, shivering with cold and terror, his lips blue as he accepted the last rites from a black-robed priest.
He was John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, known popularly as The Butcher of England. Warwick’s soldiers had found him hiding in the depths of a forest in Huntingdonshire, and dragged him from his miserable hiding-place to London for trial.
It was Tiptoft who oversaw the slaughter and dismemberment of Warwick’s captured soldiers at Southampton the previous April. Warwick vividly recalled standing on the deck of his flagship, helpless as he witnessed these atrocities, and felt no pity for the man.
The Earl of Oxford stood a little way off, at the head of a troop of his own armed retainers wearing his badge of the star with streams. He was officially presiding over the execution, and had acted as the judge at Tiptoft’s trial.
Since Tiptoft had once presided over the trials and executions of Oxford’s father and elder brother, the verdict was hardly ever in doubt.
Oxford’s bulldog face was a study in barely-concealed passion. His normally ruddy cheeks were pale as fresh milk, and he chewed his bottom lip impatiently as the priest muttered and made the sign of the cross over Tiptoft.
“Get on with it, man,” barked Warwick, stamping his feet, “or else the bugger might die of cold before the axe touches him.”
A man with more defiance in him might have cursed Warwick then, but Tiptoft’s pride and courage had drained out of him the moment sentence was pronounced. A tall, impressive, almost regal figure in the days of his glory, he made for a wretched sight now.
Warwick’s merest word was law, and it gave him great satisfaction to watch the men on the scaffold hurry about their task. The priest retreated, having done his best for the state of Tiptoft’s soul, and the black-masked executioner took up position beside the block.
As a nobleman, Tiptoft was entitled to death by beheading rather than hanging or the more drawn-out forms of execution. The executioner carried a double-handed broadsword for the task. Its blade was sharpened to a razor’s edge, and glinted dully in the wan October sun.
Tiptoft knelt and prayed. His lips moved soundlessly as he uttered a Pater Noster for the last time on earth.
His judge could no longer contain himself. “Beseech the Lord all you like, murderer!” bellowed Oxford, clenching his huge fists, “the Devil will have your soul for a plaything, and welcome!”
Warwick had to press his hand over his mouth to conceal a smile. There was something deliciously amusing about witnessing his peers tearing into each other. Their weakness had always been his opportunity. Oxford’s blunt, honest character and explosive temper made him an easy man to manipulate, provided you knew how to handle him.
Warwick knew. Long experience and observation had taught him how to handle all of them. His friends and allies were mere puppets, and from hereon would prance to his tune.
Tiptoft ignored Oxford’s outburst. “I beseech you,” he said to the executioner, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “to take my head with three blows, in honour of the Trinity.”
The masked swordsman nodded gravely. Warwick was impressed. Tiptoft had found some courage at the end. Most men would have pleaded to have their heads struck off with one blow, as quickly and painlessly as possible.
The executioner did his best to comply with the condemned man’s wishes. He was a skilled swordsman, a prize-fighter chosen from Warwick’s personal guard.
Warwick winced as the sword swept down and cut into the back of Tiptoft’s neck, laying open his spine. Tiptoft make a choking noise. Blood gushed from his mouth and nostrils. The gash in his neck was but a shallow one, and for a dreadful few seconds he was suspended in terrible pain.
“Jesu, have pity,” he managed to gasp, just before the sword flashed do
wn again and half-decapitated him. Still he lived. He uttered a feeble scream, and his bloodshot eyes threatened to pop from their sockets.
No stranger to executions, this was a trifle too much even for Warwick’s hardened stomach. The faces of those gathered around the scaffold were pictures of disgust and pity. All save Oxford’s. For him, the killing of Tiptoft was both vengeance and redemption, and he nodded with grim approval at each stroke of the sword.
“For God’s sake, end it,” muttered Warwick, and was relieved when the bloody sword came down a third time and neatly lopped Tiptoft’s head from its trunk.
The head dropped into a wicker basket. At a signal from Oxford, two soldiers picked up the basket and carried it away. The head was destined to be impaled on a pike and displayed over London Bridge alongside the heads of other traitors.
Treachery, Warwick contemplated as he sat down shortly afterwards to a welcome hot breakfast, was now largely defined by him. The reins of law and government were firmly in his hands, and would be until Queen Margaret returned to England.
He picked up a chicken leg between finger and thumb and moodily gnawed at it. The queen and her son were going to present problems. He had fought and schemed for years to achieve supreme power in England, and wasn’t inclined to hand it all back again. Especially not to Margaret of Anjou, who had made such a mess of ruling in her mad husband’s stead.
Then there was Clarence. The truculent duke was currently sulking at Burford in Oxfordshire, embittered by Warwick’s decision to restore King Henry instead of placing him on the throne.
Sooner or later, Warwick knew, the recalcitrant young duke would have to be dealt with. It was tempting to have Clarence disposed of with poison or an assassin’s knife, except he was married to Warwick’s daughter.
He could wait until she had a son. That would secure the fusing of Warwick’s blood with the blood royal, and render Clarence irrelevant.
“A fine morning’s work,” said Oxford, jerking Warwick out of his reverie.
The earl was seated opposite Warwick inside the royal apartments on the upper floors of the Tower. King Henry and his consort had once dined here in private.
Not any more. Henry was safely locked away in a chamber in a remote corner of the keep, where he could argue with invisible demons and pray to his heart’s content. His only function now was to appear in public (very occasionally) and smile and wave to the people. If sufficiently well-rehearsed beforehand, Warwick could trust him to do that much.
“I want you to go to East Anglia,” said Warwick, not wishing to dwell on Tiptoft’s execution, “and organise the defences there with Lord Scrope. Edward may well attempt a landing on the east coast.”
Oxford’s chair creaked as he leaned back. He had already devoured most of his breakfast, and his eyes were mazed with drink.
“Fine,” he said thickly, “we will meet the bastard wherever he tries to land. Him and his rabble of frog-eaters. Let them come, and soon.”
He grabbed a loaf of bread and started to tear it in pieces. “You wish to discuss strategy, my lord,” he said, breathing wine fumes across the table, “so let’s do so.”
“Here is Pembroke,” – he stuck his finger into a puddle of cider on the table - “whipping up his kinsmen in Wales on our behalf.”
“And here,” he went on, arranging the bits of bread into a pattern, “is our fleet patrolling the Channel, under the command of your kinsman, the Bastard of Fauconberg. The man is naught but a bloody pirate, but he preys on Yorkist as well as merchant shipping, so we’ll let that pass.”
He paused to belch, which gave Warwick the opportunity to intervene.
“The North is secure,” he said, “my brother Montagu holds Pontefract Castle, and from there keeps an eye on the Earl of Northumberland. So our defences are secure at all points except the east, which is why I want you there. I don’t trust Lord Scrope. He has a propensity to turn his coat.”
Oxford spluttered with laughter, and had to pause a moment while he fought for breath.
“Trust?” he gasped, banging his chest, “what trust is there in England? I trust no man living, save maybe Pembroke. I make bargains with my enemies, and peel back my lips into a whore’s smile so I may consort with traitors. I place my soul in jeopardy. All, I console myself, for my king. My dear, afflicted, helpless king.”
Warwick looked at him nervously. Excess of wine had made Oxford maudlin. The next stage was anger, and Warwick didn’t relish the thought of being alone with this powerful, unstable man in a rage.
“You dare,” said Oxford, stabbing a wavering forefinger at Warwick, “to talk of men turning their coats. How many coats have you worn, my lord Warwick? A great many, but they were mere coverings. Underneath, you wear the bear and ragged staff, and no other.”
This was frank talk of a kind Warwick preferred to avoid. “You are drunk, sir,” he said, snatching away the wine jug, “learn to guard your tongue, else it utters something you cannot repent from.”
Oxford coloured even further, so Warwick decided to go on the offensive. “Self-interested I may be,” he said, holding the other man’s gaze, “but I am the House of Lancaster’s last and only hope. Without me, your cause would slide back into the hole I plucked it from.”
An uneasy silence fell as both men stared at each other with loathing. Both were unarmed save for eating-knives, but any decent blade could kill.
Warwick had never seen Oxford fight, and wondered how fast he was. The earl’s thick neck, slanted shoulders and muscular arms hinted at formidable strength, but he carried too much fat, and was drunk into the bargain.
On the whole, Warwick preferred not to risk it. Best to call for the guard and have Oxford dragged away to cool his overheated blood in the dungeons. Warwick had already incarcerated the Duke of Norfolk and the Archbishop of Canterbury, both of them Yorkist sympathisers. Oxford could spend some time in their august company.
The words were already in his throat when the door slid open and the chamberlain entered.
“Pardon the interruption, lords,” he said nervously, his eyes widening as they took in the scene, “but a messenger has arrived with news from France. He gives his name as James Bolton, and says he is known to you, my lord Warwick.”
“So he is,” Warwick replied out of the side of his mouth, without taking his eyes off Oxford, “show him in. I will receive him in my private study.”
The chamberlain bowed and hastened out. Warwick slowly rose from his chair, spreading his hands to show he meant no harm.
“Business,” he said, mustering a smile, “we must keep ourselves occupied. That is the safest way to guard against our enemies, and prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings.”
The dangerous look in Oxford’s red-rimmed eyes had ebbed. He suddenly looked tired, and reached for a cloth to mop his greasy face.
“I’m for East Anglia, then,” he said, as if the previous tension had not existed, “God grant that Edward of March chooses to make landfall on the east coast. I will slay him with my bare hands.”
Warwick glanced at the earl’s hands. His fingers were like sausages, and it was easy to imagine them twisting a man’s neck until it cracked.
“Yes,” said Warwick, suppressing a shudder, “let him come, and soon.”
Chapter 14
East Anglia, 14thMarch 1471
In his dreams Edward had fondly pictured himself returning to England in glory at the head of a mighty host, and sweeping all before him as he landed at Sandwich and marched in triumph on London. The gates of the capital were wide open to receive him, as were the legs of the legion of mistresses, high-born and low, he had regretfully left behind him when he fled into exile.
Foolish dreams, he reflected, and they seemed even more so in the stark light of day.
His modest fleet of thirty-six ships bobbed off the coast of Cromer in East Anglia. The flat grey landscape combined with grey skies and grey seas to depress the spirits of everyone aboard Edward’s flagship, Anthony.
Edward had been around soldiers from a young age, and could sense when their spirits were low. His lords and Burgundian mercenaries did their best to hide it in his presence, talking with forced jocularity of the campaign ahead, but he could see the truth in their eyes. None of them rated their chances worth a damn, and no wonder.
He felt different. Always at his best in a crisis, the weeks of horse-trading with the Duke of Burgundy in the Low Countries had irritated him immensely, not least because he was obliged to debase and place himself in debt to the duke and foreign merchants. Only his natural courtesy, and the knowledge that he had no other resource, had prevented him from wiping the avaricious smiles from their well-fed faces with his fists.
At last he had negotiated a deal, and been able to sail from the port at Flushing with his thirty-six ships and fifteen hundred Burgundian mercenaries. The mercenaries were a coarse, ragbag set, as such sell-swords tended to be, but knew their trade.
“How long are they going to be?” he muttered to himself, drumming his fingers impatiently on the side of the foredeck, “God help us if they have been spotted.”
“Chamberlain and Bedingham are reliable men, and they know the lie of the land,” his brother Gloucester said confidently, “they will stab themselves rather than be taken prisoner.”
Gloucester referred to Sir Robert Chamberlain and Sir Gilbert Bedingham, two of Edward’s most trusted knights, whom he had sent ashore to scout out the land. They had been gone for over three hours. Every passing minute added a keener edge to Edward’s anxiety.
“They are under no orders from me to take their own lives,” he said. “We have no right to ask our followers to imperil their souls.”
Gloucester’s heavy jaw tightened. “When a man swears loyalty to another,” he said, “that loyalty is absolute. If they are taken captive, the Lancastrians will torture them to reveal our whereabouts. I instructed them to kill themselves rather than let that happen.”
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