“Edward, what think you of this noble duke’s plea for forgiveness?”
He was surprised by his mother’s request for advice, but did not lose his composure.
“While I deplore his past actions, I know his grace to be an honest man, and welcome his return.”
Margaret was pleased. At such a tender age, he already understood well the difficult decisions required of diplomacy, and when it was wise to make convenient, if distasteful, alliances
“We agree,” she said. “Rise, my lord of Somerset, and receive our pardon.”
The duke stood and kissed the queen’s offered hand. “I thank Your Highness. You shall not have cause to regret this kindness.”
“We know it, my lord. You shall take command of our vanguard when our troops move forward, which will be soon.” The words amazed Sir Ralph Percy and the soldiers in the room. Command of the vanguard was a critical position, and not one commonly granted to a general of questionable loyalty. Somerset bowed his head.
“I will dispatch the duty with all my ability, Your Highness.”
“We doubt it not,” and with a wave of her hand signaled that the audience was over. Somerset bowed again and left the room. Percy was the first to break the silence.
“Forgive me, my lady, but this is a dangerous appointment.”
Margaret lifted her hand to silence him. “The duke will not betray us again, you can be certain of that. He knows that the usurper would have his head if he tried to go back now, and in the vanguard, he will be too busy fighting for his life to hatch any traitorous plots. And you will be with him, Sir Ralph, just to be sure.”
Henry chuckled softly, a sound that drew everyone’s attention. “Percy and Somerset; Somerset and Percy.” The words seem to amuse him. “Together they will fight and together they’ll be true, but no red eyes will cry when together they shall die.” The blood drained from Percy’s face, and he crossed himself involuntarily. At the sight, Margaret stood.
“These are the musings of a distracted mind, my lords, and should not be heeded. Give way and let the king rest. He has had a most difficult time, as have we all. Prepare the troops as planned. We will march at first light.”
Relieved to be dismissed, the courtiers filed out and left the royal family to themselves. Margaret sat, exhausted, and closed her eyes, as if to create a better reality. She felt a hand on hers and opened her eyes reluctantly to see Henry’s face close to hers.
“I am sorry, my love, but I thought it would be right to let him know.”
Margaret looked at him lovingly. “Let him know what, my husband? That you are possessed of some kind of evil power? Can’t you see that you will take the resolve from his soul if you persist with these rantings?”
“It is his duty to die for his king. He has no right to hope for salvation except from the Lord Everlasting.”
Margaret pushed him away. “Until the Lord takes him, I need him at his best,” she said sternly. “And it behooves you to give him a reason to put his life in harm’s way, not to sap his strength when he needs it the most. If you must make these…prophesies, I will thank you to make them privately to me. If not for my sake, then do it for the sake of our son.”
The prince sat silently, wishing that his father had the will to be a great king.
“Yes, please, Father, to reclaim our rights we must stand together.”
Margaret put her hand on her son’s head. “Fear not, my son. I swear to you that we shall be masters of this realm again.”
“Yes,” agreed Henry sadly. “We shall.”
*
That same day, a sunny afternoon in early May, Lord Montagu gazed out over his troops, happy at the sight of so many fine men-at-arms. And King Edward himself had promised to bring even more from the south within a few days. Standing outside his tent, he inhaled loudly, enjoying the sweet aroma of lilac in the air. Since his brother, the Earl of Warwick, had been sent to France, he had controlled the entire expanse of the realm from York north to the Scottish border, and once again, he had high hopes that the former king and queen would be finally defeated. His intelligence had placed the Lancastrians carelessly gathered near the town of Hexham, not more than a few hours’ ride away. He intended to strike at once and not wait for the king to bolster his numbers.
Watching as the army prepared itself for the march to Hexham, he relished the feel of the warm spring sun on his face. The sweeping flatlands of Northumberland beckoned to him as if he had spent his entire life there. Small clumps of trees dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see, and the rare sight of a cloudless sky all the way to the horizon lifted his spirits.
When his captain informed him that the troops were arrayed and ready for the march, he mounted his horse and gave the order to begin. Montagu rode just behind the vanguard, at the head of the great body of the army, and set a quick pace. He could not wait to engage the enemy once again.
*
The valley of the River Linnel, a tributary of the Tyne, stretched south from the town of Hexham, not far from the ruins of Hadrian’s Wall. Somerset and Percy enjoyed the pleasant weather that had blessed the country. The midafternoon sun stood high overhead with an uncommon warmth. Percy sensed the duke’s unease.
“Why are you so restless today, my lord?” he asked.
“We do not have the kind of intelligence that served us so well in our past engagements, and I know Montagu is out there somewhere. Perhaps even Edward himself. We must be well prepared when next we meet.”
“You need not fear our intelligence. The scouts will find them.”
“This may be our last, best chance to gather an army large enough to unseat Edward. I do not wish to squander it.”
“And the fact that Edward has a large price on your head is also a great motivation, I’m sure.”
Somerset squirmed. “The Yorkists have no special love for you either, my friend.” Wishing he were someplace else and away from Percy’s company, he knew that his path had led him to increasingly darker choices, and now it seemed that his life was controlled by the puppeteer. A courier rode in and quickly dismounted.
“My lords, an army approaches from the south, two thousand strong, by the captain’s estimate.” Somerset walked back and strained his eyes to the south, but saw nothing.
“How far?”
“They are fast upon that hill, my lord.” He pointed to a place that was not more than a few arrowshots away.
Percy grabbed him by the shirt. “How could they get that close without being seen?” He was furious.
“They must have captured the sentry, my lord.”
Percy had all but lost any outward calm. Somerset felt cold fingers of fear close around his heart, but his first thought was for the queen and the Prince of Wales, who had foolishly accompanied them on this march.
“Go, and tell the queen’s guard that she must flee to Bywell Castle. Thank God the king is there already. Go, I say!” He pushed the courier toward his horse, and began ordering the captains to begin a hasty deployment. “They will have the high points before we can get there. Our only hope is to array along the bluffs near the river, and wait for them to attack. If we make them come to us, we’ll be fighting from a stronger position.” He looked to the south and saw the Yorkist army taking up positions along the hilltops. “Quickly! Before all is lost.”
*
“I would venture to guess that we have caught them smartly, eh, Captain?” Montagu watched as the Lancastrians scrambled like ants in the valley below.
“They have a difficult position to defend, my lord.”
“You have a penchant for understatement, my friend. Let us press our advantage. Take half the army and push them against the river from there.” Montagu indicated a long ridge that formed a horseshoe around the enemy’s position. “When they are
all contained I’ll attack their center and you need only ensure that they do not escape.”
“As you wish, my lord.” He bowed quickly and was gone.
Montagu watched as his captain attacked the flank of the Lancastrian position and, slowly, by virtue of better position and superior numbers, began to shove the defenders against the river. Neither army had a large contingent of archers, so the battle was waged mostly by footsoldiers in hand-to-hand skirmishes. Where mounted knights attacked each other, the fighting was more furious. When the time was right, Montagu signaled his men forward to join the fray. His fresh troops stormed down the hill with swords brandished, yelling loudly as much to bolster their own courage as to frighten the enemy. Colliding into the center of the Lancastrian position, his men cut and hewed through hundreds of bodies and soldiers, struggling to clear enough room to swing their weapons. Montagu saw Percy not more than an arrow’s shot away and began to cut his way through the dense resistance. This was a prize he wanted for himself.
Seeing Montagu approach, Percy was only too delighted to settle the score on the field of honor. He also steered himself toward a meeting with the hated Neville. As they came within shouting distance, Percy leapt his horse over a wide gully, and in the height of the jump was pierced through the thigh by an arrow. When the horse landed, Percy fell with a crash to the ground. Before the footsoldiers could get to him, Montagu arrived to see Percy squirming in pain. He ordered his men to take Percy to his tent, then waded into the battle again. The Lancastrians were soon splashing into the river in an attempt to flee the thrashing swords of the enemy, and were being cut to pieces by the hundreds.
Before long, the battle was over, and the Yorkists were robbing the dead, pursuing fleeing remnants, and killing mercilessly. Somerset had also been taken alive and was escorted to Montagu’s tent with Percy. Montagu searched desperately for the royal family, but found no trace of them, much to his disappointment.
At his tent, a page helped to remove his armor and he took a moment to survey his injuries. He found only a gash on his sword arm, which the page wrapped tightly to stop the bleeding. He silently thanked God for seeing him safely through another battle. Stepping into the tent, he saw Percy lying on the floor, struggling to remove the arrow from his leg, and Somerset sitting on the only stool, staring at the ground.
“Help him with that,” Montagu pushed his page toward Percy. Pouring himself some ale, he offered some to Somerset, who refused. A scream from Percy indicated that the arrow had been removed. “Where are Margaret and Henry?” he asked.
“Your king and queen are safely dispatched to fight another day,” answered Somerset. Percy groaned from the floor.
“Perhaps,” said Montagu, carefully regarding the duke. “Captain!” he called toward the tent flap.
“My lord?” the captain asked when he entered.
“Form details to search for Margaret and her whelp. I want no stone unturned between here and Newcastle!” Margaret had to be captured, or these battles would never end.
“Yes, my lord,” the captain bowed and was gone.
“You will both be my guests until orders come from the king regarding your disposition. Is there anything you desire?”
“Only to be removed from your presence,” responded Percy tightly.
“I happily grant your request.” Montagu motioned to the guards. He fell
heavily onto his stool and emptied a tankard of ale. A good day’s work, he thought, but the prize has somehow slipped my grasp again.
*
Queen Margaret had been relaxing with her son in the royal tent when news of Montagu’s arrival reached her. She had accompanied the army this far, feeling that the men needed some strong leadership for a change, and she wanted the prince to learn what was required of a monarch. Not wishing to be encumbered with Henry and his demoralizing pronouncements, she had insisted that he stay behind in Bywell Castle.
But the worst had happened: The Yorkists managed to surprise them. She would not risk the capture of her son. She had quickly ordered the largest escort that could be gathered in a few minutes, a contingent of ten soldiers, and rode with all possible haste back to Bywell. At first, it looked as if the journey would be a safe one, but fortune, once again, deserted her. A company of fourscore men summoned from Newcastle by Montagu met them on the road in a dense wood.
The gallant sergeant who commanded Margaret’s escort had swiftly ordered the queen’s small party to fall back to a narrow bridge that crossed a steep channel. There he yelled to the queen to flee into the woods while he held off the Yorkist troops. Two men accompanied her while the other eight held the bridge in a suicidal bid to grant Margaret time to escape.
With the two soldiers, Margaret and her son fled deep into the woods. The captain of the Newcastle men gave chase but lost the fugitives’ trail in the dense underbrush. Finally, he decided to give up the search.
For most of the next day Margaret’s party wandered through the woods. But when hunger began to demand action, Margaret determined that they would have to risk the road once again. She guessed that they were no more than a day’s walk to Bywell, where they could gather a larger escort that would see them safely to Berwick Castle.
Finally, as the woods thinned and the road curved over the top of a flat ridge, Bywell Castle came into view in the distance. The sight filled Margaret with hope for the first time since their speedy departure from Hexham, and taking the prince by the hand, she quickened their pace. She did not realize that the footsteps behind her were not those of her escort.
She heard the sickening sound of an ax that severed the spine of one of her guard. As the other guard saw his partner fall to the ground he had time only to yell “My lady!” Margaret spun around to see a ragged man draw his knife across the poor guard’s throat. Three more men dressed in rags and filthy beyond anything she had ever seen before came from a place of concealment behind a hedgerow and walked toward them. She drew the prince to her and stood staunchly before them, knowing in her soul that her time in this life was undoubtedly past. Her thick French accent was steady and strong as always.
“The hand that spills our royal blood will rot in damnation!” Two of the brigands were looting the bodies of the guards while the other two surrounded the prince and his mother.
“You won’t mind handing over your purse, will you, Mum?”
“We are the queen. We have no need for a purse.”
He pointed to her hands with his blade. “Then you’ll have no need of them rings either. Let’s have ’em.”
She spat at him while removing her rings and tossing them on the ground before her. The man in front dived for them before they stopped rolling. It was more wealth than he had ever seen, or would ever again see in his miserable life. The other two had not acquired any such treasure from the bodies of the guards and came up to join the scramble. A particularly pale man held out his hand.
“Let’s see ’em,” he demanded of his compatriot.
“Get your own.”
Without warning, the pale man leapt at the other, clamping his hands firmly around his throat, holding him in a death grip until no life remained. Finally releasing the body, he began digging in the man’s pockets for Margaret’s rings. The scuffle and noise had masked the sounds of new footsteps, and as the brigand held the rings up in triumph, the glittering jewels were the last sight he would ever see before an arrow pierced his heart from behind. His body landed with a thud on the ground atop his own victim.
Three new men had emerged from the woods, all well armed. At the sight of them, the brigands took to their heels and disappeared into the woods. Margaret suspected that she had merely been delivered into the hands of a new set of thugs. But to her surprise, they knelt.
“Your Highness need fear no evil from us. We are sworn to protect the House of Lancaster and are pleas
ed that we arrived in time. My name is Christopher, and your servant.”
“With whom do you serve, brave soldiers?”
“With Robin of Redesdale, Your Highness. We were marching to join you when we heard news of the battle near Hexham. Robin overcame one of Montague’s search parties and learned from them that Your Highness was somewhere in these woods.” Christopher smiled. “I grew up near here. We were lucky to find you before those thieves did you any harm.”
“Rise, brave men. We thank you for your aid, but we must make haste to Bywell yonder.” She pointed to the castle that stood so tantalizingly close on the nearby ridgeline.
Christopher escorted them until they were close enough to be spotted by the castle watch, which, upon seeing them, sent an escort for the rest of the way. Back among those who accepted her station, Margaret was once again able to feel like a queen. Christopher and his fellows were fed and allowed to rest until Lord Roos, one of the queen’s original followers who still lived to attend her, entered the kitchen. He addressed Christopher.
“The queen informs me that you serve one who calls himself Robin of Redesdale. Is this true?”
“It is, my lord.”
“I know him well. Tell me, what is his strength?” Christopher did not know if he should be speaking about Robin to someone whose loyalties he knew nothing about.
“He is…well attended, my lord.”
“Come, come, man. If I were a danger to him I would not have been with the queen for all this time.” But he understood Christopher’s dilemma. “You need not tell me where he is, but I must know if he has a following that we may depend on when next we have an opportunity.”
“You can depend on us, my lord! We are not fighting men by trade, but we know where our duties lie, and will dispatch them to the best of our talents, by God’s will.”
The Beggar's Throne Page 24