“We tell you frankly, Brezé, we fear this union,” said Margaret. “Upon our soul, it does not sit well. But for our son’s sake we must take this risk.”
“My lady, soon your son will be back where he belongs. As for the earl, once you have reclaimed the throne, you will have your destiny back in your own hands.”
“But we have seen that the Yorkist pretender is an able general, and we cannot risk our son’s life, even for the throne.” It was the first time he had ever seen her close to tears. “And Warwick cannot assure us of victory. He may be so deluded, but we are not.”
“My lady,” he responded after a moment of thought, “perhaps there is no need for your son to be risked in such a battle. I will suggest to Louis that the invasion force be split in two parts, one under the earl’s leadership, and one under yours. The earl will go first to see what support he has, and if he is successful, you will follow later with the prince, but only after Warwick has secured a safe kingdom for you both.”
Margaret was delighted by the strategy. “It is very agreeable to us, my lord. Let Warwick take the risks and we shall enter triumphantly afterwards if he wins. Will Louis agree?”
“I will see that he does, my lady. He will accede to my superior understanding in these matters. He has too much to gain.”
*
The following day, Warwick, having already started planning an invasion fleet with Lascombes, was not pleased to hear about the king’s decision to split the small army. He would need every man. On the other hand, he was relieved to hear that the queen would not accompany them, as she would have been a terrible distraction. But the decision was made. A servant entered.
“Well?”
“My lord, Sir Hugh wishes an audience.” The man was a fool, thought Warwick, but he would provide much needed help in the coming conflicts.
“Very well,” he waved the man away.
A month in exile had made him irritable in almost all things, but it had not clouded his judgment. It would take at least another month to make all the necessary preparations, and the time would go by slowly. In the meantime, he had to take precautions that intelligence of these plans did not reach Edward.
Sir Hugh entered wearing the same clothes that he wore the day he arrived in this hated land. If the exile had been hard on Warwick, it had been horrendous for Sir Hugh and the rest of the earl’s retainers. They had been billeted as common footsoldiers with the private guard of the lord constable, and many were the times that he could have killed the first detested Frenchman he saw. Now, however, he had reached the end of his tolerance, and while he had no desire to alienate himself from the earl, he had come to make it clear that the status quo could no longer be permitted. But Warwick did not give him a chance.
“Sir Hugh!” he called jovially. “I was going to send for you. I have excellent news. We have all been treated deplorably, is it not so?”
“Yes, my lord,” he answered, disarmed by the earl’s manner.
“King Louis has given us what we sought, and soon we shall see the white shores of our own land again.”
“That is good news indeed, my lord.” Sir Hugh smiled.
“And you will be pleased to hear that we will fight to place your old master, King Henry, back on throne.”
This was a surprise indeed. Sir Hugh commended his own wisdom for the decision to remain on good terms with Lord Fitzwalter.
“When will the invasion begin?”
Warwick shrugged casually. “In a month perhaps. There is much to be done. But you will leave much sooner than that. I want you back on English soil within a fortnight, as there are several tasks that you must see dispatched in preparation of our arrival.”
Sir Hugh smiled again.
“I am your servant, my lord.”
That evening, Warwick received another visitor, one whom he had been avoiding since his last conversation with the king. But now was as good a time as any to reveal Louis’ plan to his son-in-law. Clarence had been hosted by an insignificant member of the king’s court, and had been living in a state of despair since his exile with the earl. He had never imagined that his brother Edward could have defeated the mighty Earl of Warwick, thereby making him a beggar instead of a prince. Warwick greeted him with the news of Louis’ assistance.
“Louis has asked a price for his assistance, however,” Warwick continued, “and though it is not what I wanted, you can surely see that we have little choice in the matter.”
“What has he asked?”
“That King Henry be restored to the throne and his son to his birthright.”
Stunned that Warwick had essentially bargained away what Clarence had risked his life to gain, he could not at first respond. He was furious, but he knew that it would gain him nothing to protest at this time.
“At my insistence, Louis has agreed that should the prince die without heir, you shall be next in line to the throne.” Warwick had hoped that this would appease Clarence enough to keep him from deserting them. “And of course, all of your lands and titles shall be restored to you immediately.” He leaned closer to the duke. “I know this is not what you hoped for, but at present, we must accept what we are given. No choice has been offered.”
“I see.” Clarence was now in control of his anger, and needed to be away from Warwick to collect his thoughts. “You have my support, of course. The thought of my little brother enjoying my domains, and my older brother controlling my life, is galling, and I’ll not abide it any longer. Let me know how I may be of assistance with your preparations.”
“I shall call on you shortly.” It had gone better than Warwick had dared hope, but he shouldn’t have been surprised, knowing how greedy the duke was. His wealth in England would be more than enough to keep him happy after they had accomplished their mission.
As he left, Clarence knew that Warwick considered him a fool, but if he had learned one thing during this atrocious exile, it was patience.
*
Lord Roos greeted Margaret in another of Louis’ waiting rooms. The planned invasion of England renewed his hope. He longed for the blood rush of battle once again. When he met the queen, he expected her to be as excited as he was, but instead, she was clearly agitated.
“Lord Roos, God willing we will soon retake our place on the English throne.”
“My prayers and hopes are with you, Highness.” Ignoring his response, she spun to face him.
“That cursed letter has still not been recovered from Fitzwalter’s daughter, and we cannot sleep until it has been. Can you understand that, my lord?”
“I can, my lady, and when we are back in England it will be my primary concern.”
“It must be more than that, my lord. We shall instruct the Earl of Warwick to release you from further duty after you have landed, and you will then make it your only desire in life to recover the letter.”
“My lady, would it not be advisable to ensure that we have regained the kingdom first?” He hated the idea of leaving the troops like a coward just when a battle loomed.
“Without that letter, the kingdom is meaningless. Can’t you see that even those noble families that have supported us will turn their backs if they see its contents? They need little enough excuse to hate us. We must see it destroyed before Warwick lands. He is sending a knight by the name of Sir Hugh to make his secret arrangements tomorrow, and we want you to accompany him. We have already informed the earl.”
“It shall be as you say, Your Highness.”
*
Two weeks after that conversation, on a dreary evening in London, Samuel and his friends greeted Sir Nigel in an alehouse that had served the members of the king’s guard since they arrived in the city. The knight removed his cloak and shook the rain from it before hanging it on a hook by the door, then kicked the mud from his soles.
“If this rain continues,” said Sir Nigel after draining his first tankard, “the roads will be in ruins again, and I would hate to have to assemble an army in such mud if Warwick were to invade.”
“Have you heard that he will?” asked Stanley.
“Oh, he will, my friend. Let there be no doubt about that. We would be fools to think that Louis will not leap at this opportunity. The only question is when and where.” Nigel was not alone in that opinion. In the recent months rumors had been thicker than flies on Fleet Street, some guessing that Warwick had already landed and was secretly gathering his friends, and others betting that it was Clarence who would soon be marching against his brother. The citizens of London were living on the edge, afraid that French mercenaries would soon be sacking their shops and homes.
Cheerful news did come to the people from Westminster Palace, however. The king announced that the queen was once again with child. They prayed that this time it would be a male child to bring some welcome stability to the succession, and therefore to the king himself. And for the first time in years, there had been no significant uprisings or disorder anywhere in the realm for the past five months, as the new Earl of Northumberland and Warwick’s brother, the Marquis of Montagu, exerted firm control over the northern counties, and the Duke of Gloucester patrolled the Welsh marches with equal diligence. But few in the kingdom felt that the calm would last.
Sir Nigel downed another tankard of ale and regarded Samuel, who had been withdrawn and morose since they arrived in the capital.
“I may have news for you, lad. I know it’s been long overdue.” Samuel looked up from his mug. For weeks, he and Oliver had waited for some word from Sir Nigel’s men, each day of silence another dagger in their hearts. They had gone about the daily chores of the guardsmen mechanically, hoping that soon they would be on their way to save their women, but the answer was always the same. “My men cannot be sure,” Nigel continued, “and I was hesitant to even bring it up, but I know that any glimmer of hope would be welcome. Have you ever heard of Lord Colinsworth?” Samuel shook his head. “I’m not surprised. His title is a lot grander than he, by all reports. There are farmers who command more wealth. A few weeks ago, a servant, his only one for all we know, entered town and drank his weight in ale at the local tavern, where, as fate would have it, one of my men was listening. I’m told he babbled for hours to anyone who would listen, and my man all but ignored him but for a quick reference to two sorry bitches that he had locked up in the castle.”
“Colinsworth?” It came from Oliver. “That’s where we were when you found us.”
“The same,” answered Sir Nigel. “If not for that fact, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Damn you,” Samuel startled everyone. “We were going to inquire there when you talked us into saving the king’s hide again. We could have found them months ago!”
“And you would most likely be dead if you had,” said Stanley. But Samuel was in no mood to be appeased.
“You don’t know that. You have no way of knowing what hell they may have been exposed to in the last three months.”
“On the other hand, you may have jeopardized their lives if you had moved too quickly.”
“They may already be dead, you fool!” Samuel shouted.
His outburst silenced the room around them, until Oliver finally intervened.
“Please, Samuel, this bickering won’t change anything. What has been done is done.” For a moment, Samuel did not seem to hear him, but after an awkward glance around the room, he slumped back in his chair. Conversations started up again around them.
“Sir Nigel, what do you propose we do now?” asked Oliver.
“Samuel, I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. When the time comes, you will not find fault with me, of that you may be certain.” Their eyes met. “At first light we will travel together to Colinsworth Castle, and by God’s breath, we will know the truth.” He looked from face to face, Stanley and Oliver each signaling their affirmation with a nod. When he looked to Samuel, he waited.
Samuel, getting an encouraging smile from Oliver, nodded once and drained his mug.
*
Colinsworth Castle stood on a low knoll, by a deep, narrow stream that formed a rough semicircle around its walls. The nearby country was flat with thickets of trees scattered for miles around. By contemporary standards, the castle was a small keep enclosed by a perfect square of high walls and a moat that did not abut the stream. The approach lane entered through a modest barbican, the narrow path blocked by a single portcullis, a heavy iron grate raised only to allow the occasional guest or servant to pass. The walls contained two towers, one guarding the entryway, and the other on the opposite wall next to the great hall. In between was a small courtyard that housed the servants’ quarters and the kitchen. Above the great hall were the master’s private rooms, which contained the only windows looking in both directions, allowing views of the surrounding fields, the produce from which supplied food for the castle.
Samuel and his friends arrived at sunset at a rise in the road that allowed them their first view of the castle from a safe and unnoticed distance. It looked like a good place to camp and study how to attempt an entry to that dark and lifeless place. The journey had taken an entire week, four days longer than it should have, over rain-ruined roads. But on this evening, the rain had let up and there were even stars to be seen.
With Samuel, Sir Nigel, Stanley, and Oliver were two of Sir Nigel’s retainers. The six of them huddled some way from the road behind a hedgerow that would have to suffice to keep them concealed, though in the daylight they could have been spotted by any passing traveler. They could not start a fire, but had carried with them an ample supply of dried venison.
“Well,” said Stanley, “now that we’re here, how do we get into that place?”
“I’ve always said that with a strong heart and clever mind, a man can walk through walls. And that place will be easier than most, I’d wager,” responded Sir Nigel. His retainers nodded in agreement, having seen him get into and out of places that they had never thought possible.
“I believe our hearts are in the right place. Perhaps you’ll tell us your plan,” Oliver said skeptically.
“I have nothing in mind at the moment, my friend. Observation is the cornerstone of planning. We may be here a while simply watching, but we will get in eventually, I promise you that.”
They all knew that Sir Nigel had unique skills in these matters, so there was little to be gained by further conversation. Samuel took the first watch. The starlit castle in the distance, he bundled himself against the cool night wind and wondered if Sally and Kate were within that dreary place. The vision of his father dying in the dark dungeon of Pontefract came to him like a knife to his heart.
*
During the next three days, some went to a nearby village to see what information they could gather, while others watched the activity within and around the castle, carefully making note of patterns of behavior that might aid them. Knowing that Samuel would be far too impatient for the latter duty, Nigel gave him and Stanley the job of gleaning what information they could from the village. While there was no alehouse in the usual sense, the blacksmith typically opened his home to neighbors and strangers who desired libation. One or two drinkers were always ready to talk an ear off in his front room. It was there that the two guardsmen, dressed as common travelers, presented themselves as pilgrims headed for Canterbury and the shrine of Saint Thomas. There was little chance that anyone would suspect that story, since thousands from all over the realm made the same trip every year.
The smith’s home reminded Samuel of any of a dozen similar ones in Northwood where he grew up. The furniture was sparse, with only three small round tables and several stools for the guests. The cooking area against the back wall consisted of a hearth with
pothooks and a small bench where the cook could sit while stirring. The floor was dirt, packed hard as rock by years of everyday traffic. The blacksmith was affluent enough to have a milk cow, several pigs, and about a dozen laying hens, all occupying the same pen, which was encircled by a combination hedge and rail fence behind their cottage. A separate shed housed the tools and bellows of the smith’s trade.
“Will you be moving on today, or spending the evening in the village?” the smith asked Samuel after serving two large ales. The travelers glanced at each other, silently electing Samuel the spokesman.
“We’ve been a fair distance and need a bit of rest. We plan to spend a day or two to get our legs back beneath us.”
“The roads are hard on honest men, I know that,” he said. “I can give you a place in the shed for the night, but I’ll have to ask you for some honest work.” The smith was used to pilgrims wanting shelter and even food, and knew that all they could usually pay was a morning’s chores.
“You are most kind,” Samuel agreed to the terms with a nod. It would provide a good excuse for them to linger in the village. “If you please, who is the master of that castle?”
“Lord Colinsworth, though you’d hardly know it by the trips he takes. You’ll not find five of us here in the village that have seen him since last Christmas. The elder Lord Colinsworth died fighting for Lancaster and lost everything but that pitiful castle to King Edward, leaving his son with almost nothing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Not that many of us care what becomes of the new master. He was never one to show much concern for us, though we mourned the death of his father.”
“Surely the new master comes to town on the holy days?” Stanley asked.
“Not one since his father died. The castle gates stay down all the time.”
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