“Clifford, he is nothing to you. Leave him, I beg you.” The words came painfully from Edmund.
Clifford returned his gaze to the earl, like a cat to a mouse. “Any friend to a Yorkist traitor requires my attention.”
“I am your prisoner. What more do you need?”
Clifford slipped his long dagger from his sword belt and stepped up to Edmund’s face. “I require only your life.” His eyes glared red with hate.
“I have never done you wrong, Clifford,” whispered Edmund.
“Your father killed mine. Do not expect better from me.” Without another word, he plunged his dagger into Edmund’s heart. Oliver screamed and tried to reach for his master’s body as it slowly sank to the ground, but was restrained by two soldiers.
The shock of his other wounds having dulled his senses, Edmund felt no pain while darkness enveloped his mind. His last thoughts were of Edward. Farewell, my brother. God keep you till we meet again.
“You bloody butcher!” Oliver screamed from where he lay on the ground, hysterical with grief. Clifford swung on him, his blood streaked dagger ready to strike again.
“My lord!” Jeremy grabbed his arm and pushed him aside.
“Jeremy, don’t…” Samuel, knowing the danger in his friend’s act, was horrified.
Almost as a reflex, Clifford lashed out with his dagger, the tip of which slashed neatly across Jeremy’s throat. The boy fell back into Samuel’s arms, hands to his neck in a vain attempt to stop the flow of blood. Unable to breathe or speak, he clasped Samuel’s hand for a moment before dying.
The entire scene had played itself out before Samuel as if in a dream. In each moment he had been too slow to prevent this nightmare. Now his dearest friend lay in his lap, his dead eyes fixed on his own.
“He is rightly served,” Lord Clifford’s voice pulled him from the dream. He wiped the blood from his dagger and slipped it easily into its sheath. “I’ll not be corrected by a common cur.”
Samuel lost his sanity to rage and leapt toward Clifford with a scream. Two of his fellow soldiers tackled him in midair.
“Don’t be a fool!” one of them whispered to him as they struggled on the ground.
Clifford made to withdraw. “Bring the body of Rutland,” he barked. “And bring that man to me for punishment,” indicating Samuel. Mounting his horse he rode off without looking back.
“That was a foolish thing to do,” said one of his fellow guardsmen. “Come, we’ll entreat with the earl to grant you leniency.”
Samuel shook his head. “Go. I’ll be along later.” His friend feared the consequences of leaving Samuel behind, but nodded and helped the others with Edmund’s body.
When they were out of sight, Samuel sat next to Oliver, who was sobbing in misery. He hoped to give this stranger some small comfort, while hatred seethed within him. The earl will not grant me leniency, because I will never fight for the House of Lancaster again.
“Come,” he helped Oliver to his feet. “There’s nothing here for either of us.” He lifted Jeremy’s body into his arms and together they walked into town.
CHAPTER V
Bradgate Manor nestled among the Midland hills like a pearl in a shell. Elizabeth Woodville waited impatiently in its great room to say some precious last words to her husband before his long journey. Sir John Grey had been summoned to York by the queen. The Greys were faithful supporters of the dynasty, having fought for the Lancastrians in France and at home generations before that. Elizabeth’s mother, the dowager duchess of Bedford, was one of the preeminent ladies of the peerage, her late husband having been an uncle to the king. And since the duchess was French by birth, she was a favorite of Queen Margaret.
“There you are, my love,” Sir John said as he entered the room from the great hall beyond. Elizabeth turned from the window and smiled at her husband. They met in the center of the room and embraced passionately, Elizabeth wanting nothing less than to remain here in her husband’s arms, the moment frozen for all time.
“I can’t bear the thought of you leaving again. How is it that Margaret cannot seem to make a move without you?”
He drew apart, if only to catch his breath. She was a woman of surpassing beauty, with golden blond hair and eyes of deep blue shrouded by long lashes that swept up from her lids and gave her a sleepy, intoxicating appearance.
“I should have left you a note and taken my leave through the back door,” he said with a sigh, kissing her again.
“And not had a final embrace to see you on your way? You wouldn’t have made it past the first oak.” Sir John knew she spoke the truth.
“Nevertheless,” he said with a sigh, stroking her hair, “I must leave presently. When we have put down this rebellion, we’ll take the children and visit the court in London. Would you like that?” He did not have to ask. London was an enchanted place for Elizabeth, where she had spent several years in the service of the queen
“Then come home soon, my love, because I can’t abide the thought of waiting long.”
At that moment, Sir John saw several horsemen coming around the last bend of the drive toward the manor. “Riders coming,” he said as he separated himself from his wife. “Were you expecting anyone?”
Elizabeth shook her head no, and they both went up to the windows to get a better look. As the riders slowly came toward the entryway, Elizabeth recognized them and began to run to the front entrance. “It’s my father and brother!”
The servants of the household began to scurry about, preparing to receive the guests. The steward, Arthur, quickstepped to the front entry, trying to arrive at the door before Elizabeth.
Having just barely beat her, he opened the double doors as the riders were dismounting. Elizabeth’s father, Lord Rivers, and her brother, Anthony, Lord Scales, were accompanied by a handful of knights and retainers, wearing chain mail over their jerkins.
“Father!” Elizabeth ran to embrace him.
“Child, it’s always my greatest joy to see you,” Rivers embraced her tightly.
“We didn’t expect you,” she said without thinking. Suddenly, she pulled away and looked at her father with concern. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Nothing that an end to this rebellion will not cure. We’ve been summoned to York, same as your good husband.” He took Sir John’s hand.
“How did you know that I had been summoned as well?” Sir John asked.
“The same post that stopped here came to Grafton first. He told me you had been summoned as well, and we thought to accompany you to York since there’s safety in numbers these days. And I wanted to see my daughter again.”
Sir John put his arm around Anthony. “You are both most welcome. Please come in. We’ll have a drink before we take to the road.”
The house staff attended to their knights and horses, while the Woodvilles settled into the warm surroundings of the front sitting room.
“Is mother well?” Elizabeth asked.
“She is well and sends her love,” said Rivers. “She hopes you will visit while we’re away on these civil matters.”
“I’ll call on her if I can, but I had hoped that John would not be gone too long this time.” The steward came in and served wine in silver goblets, then stood off against a wall waiting to refill glasses as they drank.
Rivers told the family all of the news from the battles that had recently torn the kingdom apart. It was a time of great danger, he said, and neither side seemed to be able to gain a significant advantage.
Elizabeth asked quietly, “What would happen to our family if the Yorkists were to prevail?”
There was a brief silence. Finally, Anthony stood, walked to the great windows.
“We would survive,” he said. “We would do whatever needed to be done, as we always have.”
<
br /> Such determination had run in her family, man and woman alike, for generations, and at this delicate moment she knew it was time to be strong again. She took up her glass and raised it before her kin.
“To the Woodvilles! God keep us and give us the will to be strong.”
They all slowly raised their cups in stern agreement. “And let no one come between us,” added Anthony. They all emptied their glasses.
“Come,” said Rivers. “It’s time we were on our way.”
*
Hastings had become impatient with Edward, who, instead of taking his advice seriously, was thinking about the New Year’s celebrations. They had spent Christmas in Gloucester, having raised all the troops he thought possible. The preparations were all made for the trip to Sandal Castle, and now Edward felt he deserved some recreation. But the Earl of Pembroke was in the area with an army loyal to the queen, and Hastings though it urgent that they keep them from joining her forces. Instead, Edward was arguing with a local merchant over how many casks of French wine he could deliver by the next day.
“My men would riot if we had only ten casks,” Edward chided the wineseller. “We need at least twenty or we’ll have angry half-drunk soldiers turning the town inside out for more. Is that what you want?”
“My lord, I shall use all the resources available to me, but I have not been able to locate any more.”
“I know you’ll do your best,” he said, and with a wave of his hand dismissed the man, who was thinking as he left the room that it might prove wiser to gather his family and leave town than to try to create ten casks of wine where none existed.
Edward looked over to Hastings and noted his scowl. They were both seated at a table in the great hall of a townhome that belonged to the Earl of Pembroke. Edward had thought it only appropriate to accept Pembroke’s hospitality while he was off gathering troops for the queen. Clearly, since Pembroke’s servants could not be trusted, he had dismissed them all and substituted his own. Now he felt comfortable for the first time since he had left Baynards Castle. A fire was lit in the stone hearth, radiating heat into the chilly marble-floored room hung with mounted stags’ heads.
“Come, William, I promise we’ll bend all our efforts to dispatching Pembroke tomorrow. But for now, forget these cares. They are making you melancholy.”
“As you wish, my lord, but I urge you to keep your troops from celebrating too much. They will have to be ready to march in two days’ time.”
As Hastings spoke there was a loud knock on the door. The sentry stepped in, waiting to be recognized.
“Yes, what is it?” asked Edward.
“My lord,” he said in an unreasonably loud voice, “a post has arrived from York and wishes to be admitted urgently.”
“Let him pass,” answered Edward uneasily. Why would there be an urgent message from his father? The last he heard, they were safely ensconced in Sandal and awaiting his arrival. The messenger came in, a small man with a red face, clearly out of breath, eyes on the floor as he entered.
“My lord, I beg you give me leave to speak, for my news is grave indeed.”
“You have no need to fear me if you deliver your news truly.”
“Your father, the Duke of York, and his army are destroyed!”
Edward staggered and fell back into his seat. Hastings, seeing that the earl was too stunned to speak, interposed himself.
“Destroyed in what fashion? Speak quickly, man!”
“My lord, Sandal Castle was beset by the queen’s army under Lord Clifford. When the duke issued forth to meet them, they were routed.”
“Issued forth?” Hastings was incredulous. “Why would they leave Sandal, you fool! If you speak falsely, I’ll feed your tongue to the swine.”
“My lord, I saw the results of the battle myself. As God is my witness, it occurred as I have said.”
“My father and brother. What news of them?” Edward’s voice was barely audible from where he sat, still dazed. Somewhere he found the courage to hear the answer that he dreaded. The messenger lowered his eyes, loath to be the instrument of such pain.
“Their heads look down on the town of York from the Micklegate Bar, my lord. Forgive me.”
Edward’s body slumped at the news. Hastings interceded.
“Leave us,” he said abruptly. “I’ll take the rest of your report presently.” The messenger stood to leave, bowing deeply, grateful to be relieved of this duty.
When he had gone, Hastings sat with Edward in silence trying to think of words that would give the earl comfort. Some things, he knew, were simply beyond human capacity. It was Edward who broke the silence.
“William, gather the troops and ready them.” It had taken a great deal of effort to say the words without faltering. He stopped to clear his throat, and Hastings could see that anger began to possess his young friend. “Send out the scouts. I want confirmation of Pembroke’s whereabouts in three days’ time. And send a post to the Earl of Warwick in London. Commend me to my cousin and tell him that we seek to join our commands in London after we have dealt with Pembroke.” Edward rose from his chair. He put both hands on the table, leaning heavily on it for support. “My father’s death will not be in vain, William. I swear it.”
The loss of York’s army at Wakefield, Hastings knew, would deal a severe blow to any hopes that Edward would fulfill his father’s dream of seizing the crown. More personally, if King Henry were to regain his throne, all of the Yorkists would be branded traitors, and the queen would not rest until they were hunted down to the last man. Making quick contact with Warwick in London was imperative, as the Yorkist hopes now lay squarely on his powerful shoulders. Using his vast resources, it may yet be possible to stop the queen before she could retake London and free the king.
“I’ll see to those tasks personally, my lord,” he said firmly.
“Go now, William. We must move with great haste. The queen is undoubtedly already on her way to London.”
Hastings bowed his head and made to leave. At the door, he hesitated. “My lord, I grieve for your loss.”
Edward, his back to his friend, slumped against the table and said nothing. Hastings quickly left the room and closed the doors securely behind him. Inside, Edward’s childhood memories of life with Edmund at Ludlow filled his mind, and he was seized by uncontrollable sobs.
*
When the Earl of Warwick heard of the disaster at Wakefield, he wasted no time gathering his forces. As the dead duke’s most powerful ally, he knew he was the queen’s next target. His most urgent task now was to secure the City of London. It was fortunate that he already had many troops in the city, the remnants of his victorious Northampton army, but the citizens were growing restless and it was all he could do to keep order. He had already sent to his friends in the eastern counties for fresh troops. It had also been fortunate for Warwick that his brother George, the Bishop of Exeter, had escaped from Sandal Castle; he’d brought a detailed account of the Wakefield debacle in only a few days. Now they sat in one of the spacious halls of Baynards Castle on the Thames.
“I tell you plainly, the roads are still almost impassable,” the bishop was telling his brother. “It was only by God’s good graces and the help of many God-fearing villagers that I was able to get here so soon.”
“Nevertheless,” said Warwick, “you are here, and we will make the most of this information you struggled so hard to provide.” George did not miss the touch of sarcasm in his brother’s voice. “The duke’s stupidity and arrogance cost him his life, but I’ll be damned if I let it cost us. We might still be able to prevail.” He thought for a moment. “In fact, the present situation might prove better for us than before. Edward will turn to us for help — he has no one else — and if we are successful, our influence over the throne will be undeniable.”
“Yo
u assume that we can defeat the queen, which has now been made unlikely by the fortunes of the duke,” said George. “She is not a fool. She knows that you are her last real enemy, and she is on her way here, have no doubts about that.”
“She will find me a more able adversary than York proved to be. That, I promise you.”
“We must guard against overconfidence, my brother. You also assume that Edward will be as clay in your hands, to be molded as you like. But once a man has attained power he will resist being controlled. Edward will be no exception.”
“He is young and inexperienced, but he’s intelligent enough to know where his strength lies, and that is with the friendship of the Neville family, as it always has been for the House of York. Fear not, he’ll be ruled by our guidance.”
The bishop contemplated one of the tapestries that adorned the castle walls. The one in this room depicted several holy crusaders as they uncovered the mystical Lance of Christ in Antioch during the first crusade. George imagined himself in that place, enraptured by the power of such a relic. It is said the lance — no more than a rusty bit of metal — was brought into battle by the newly inspired Europeans as they routed the Muslim hordes in battle the very next day. The bishop reluctantly brought himself back to the present, and looked at his brother’s ruddy face.
“I keep wondering about something the young Earl of Rutland told me before his death. Something about making a sacrifice for a cause. At the time, I thought he was referring to his brother, though I’m not sure why.”
Warwick was growing impatient with his brother’s musings. “It’s the dream of all young knights to die for what they believe. He was probably feeling his own mortality before the battle. Such feelings are common among warriors.”
“Perhaps,” said the bishop thoughtfully. “But I don’t think so.”
*
Oliver and Samuel huddled under a yew hedge just outside the first cottage on the road into Northwood. It was a cold night with a damp wind that seeped into their bones and made them shiver. Each breath seem to draw the cold deeper into their bodies as they exhaled uneven puffs of vapor. Three men that Samuel could not recognize in the dark were talking and laughing in the street not more than twenty paces from where they concealed themselves. Unwilling to risk being recognized, Samuel had no choice but to wait until they had gone. A far cry, he thought, from the send-off that he was given when he last stood near this place.
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