In one day, his army had assembled and was ready to begin the reconquest of the realm, a lofty goal for so small a fellowship. But the king’s spirits were lifted by their high morale, and he would not be the one to lose hope before their fate was sealed. In the morning they set out for York, where, if the Earl of Northumberland was against them, the end of their quest would come quickly. But Edward was, if not the king, the rightful Duke of York, and that town would not deny him entry and provisions. Two days of marching passed without interference from anybody, and it was now clear to Edward as he arrived at the gates of York that Northumberland would not defy him, though his silence meant that he could not depend on military assistance. While not entirely good news, it gave his enterprise a fighting chance.
The mayor admitted them to the city, welcoming him only as the Duke of York. Edward had no desire to press his luck, as Montagu was nearby at Pontefract and would soon raise an army of his own. They stayed only one night and then quickly passed Wakefield on his way south. As he suspected, without the help of Northumberland, Montagu had not had time to gather enough men, and he therefore stayed within the confines of Pontefract as Edward marched by.
Two more days found them at Doncaster, the town from which he had been forced to flee his kingdom, and this time with an even smaller following. But help was slowly arriving: two knights who had received great favors from him in better times arrived with six hundred men, and another hundred and fifty came with him from York.
He knew that to stay in any place too long would be folly, as the process of gathering troops required that the nobility see the king himself with a strong army at his back. Edward marched his men next to Leicester, where Sir William Stanley, a close friend of Lord Hastings, brought three thousand men. Edward was now prepared to march on London.
*
Later that day, King Henry VI, king for three months now, walked along the inner wall of the Tower, as was his custom on days when he felt that the royal suite of the White Tower had grown too confining. He had been promised that once the queen arrived from France, he would be permitted to move back to Westminster Palace, but for now, his protection demanded that he remain here.
He had felt a need to see his old place of confinement in the Wakefield Tower, and made his way onto the allure, where he paused to enjoy the unhindered view of the River Thames. The guard presented arms when he passed, and then resumed his post with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Hearing faint voices, he crossed to the adjacent Garden Tower. Leaning over the wall, he saw two guards below who stood over the river gate.
“Then it’s true,” said the first gruffly, “he has landed for sure?”
“My brother serves Warwick and he’s been called to fight. There’s a great rush about it. I’d wager a day’s rations that he’s headed here as we speak.”
“Warwick will make short work of him. He’s the Kingmaker, ain’t he?”
“That’s sure enough. The Yorkists have no friends left. I’d march out with the earl myself if I could only get away from here.” The first grunted agreement.
“Now that old Henry’s ready to move out, there’s no one to worry about here anyway. Who’d want to brave an attack on this place for nothing?”
“Just a few wretches like these two down here,” he indicated the base of the Garden Tower. “But I think they have some special fate in store for them.” He paused to shake his head in pity. “I’d not be in their place to save my soul.”
“Nor I,” the other agreed. “What do you suppose they did?”
“No one tells me anything,” he shrugged, “but it was that bloody demon Sir Hugh who brought them here, so you can bet they got themselves on the wrong side of the earl. My brother heard that one of them even served the Earl of Rutland, he that died at Wakefield.”
Henry, startled by the last comment, tried to calm the voices that shouted to him from the past. Working hard to steady himself, he made his way down the spiral steps that led to where the guards were standing.
“You two, attend us.” Recognizing the king, they stiffened and presented arms.
“The one you say served the Earl of Rutland, take us to him at once.”
The guards looked at each other.
“The lower cells are not a place that we would choose to take Your Highness,” the first one said. “It is most unpleasant.”
“We have been to Hell,” he said softly. “The cells will not offend us.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” They reluctantly led the king to a small door at the base of the Garden Tower, where the first one pulled a set of long keys from his belt and unlocked the door. A torch lit the way down a short set of steps to another door that was also locked. Pulling the torch from the wall, he pushed the door open. Henry saw two men sleeping on the hard floor in a corner, the foul smell of corruption turning his stomach. The guards waited impatiently.
“Wake them,” Henry commanded.
The guard gave one and then the other a shove with his foot.
“Wake up, dogs, and kneel before the king!”
They both got to their knees as fast as their emaciated bodies would let them.
Oliver squinted hard. “This is not the king,” he said softly. The guard, stunned by his temerity, struck him across the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Stop!” ordered Henry. The guard backed off while Samuel helped his friend back to his knees. Henry stepped forward.
“I have heard that one of you served the Earl of Rutland. Is this true?” Oliver was still trying to regain his wits and did not answer.
“Answer His Highness,” the guard threatened.
Samuel answered for him, hoping to shield him from further abuse.
“It is true.”
“In what capacity?” Henry asked Samuel.
“I was his page,” interrupted Oliver.
Henry regarded Oliver with a dreamy look. He was bleeding from the mouth and filthy from months of abuse.
“When did you see him last?”
“The night he was murdered at Wakefield,” he said almost inaudibly.
“Highness, please allow us to take you from this place,” pleaded a guard.
“Tell me how he died,” the king asked Oliver.
Oliver was angry and felt no fear, even of the hulking guard.
“The bloody butcher Clifford killed him, when he was unarmed and sorely wounded. It was a foul deed.”
Henry placed both hands against his own chest, seeming to slip into a trance. The guards waited again, wishing that the king would regain his wits and let them leave.
“Bring them!” he suddenly ordered.
The guards were stunned. “Sire, the constable of the Tower has expressly forbidden us to even enter these cells, much less to take these prisoners out.”
“Are we your king or is the constable?” demanded Henry.
They were both terrified at risking the wrath of the constable, whose orders surely had came from Warwick. They looked at each other in desperation, knowing they must obey. They pulled the prisoners to their feet and led them up the stairs to the passageway between the two great walls. Stepping into the open, Samuel and Oliver shielded their eyes from the daylight, unable to see more than just the walls around them. Samuel wore only a pair of filthy torn leggings, his emaciated body barely able to support even those. The welts caused by the beating at Colinsworth Castle still burned angry red. And Oliver looked only slightly better. The sight of them shivering and almost blind in the cold afternoon wind ripped at Henry’s heart.
“Both of you, give them your cloaks,” he snapped at the guards, who were dumbfounded.
“Sire…!”
“You will obey us.”
Reluctantly, they
placed their cloaks on the prisoners’ shoulders. Henry led them toward the main gate that opened on the bustling city of London. When they arrived, the gatekeepers scrambled in disbelief to attend the king, who waved them away.
“Open the gates and release these men.” The gatekeeper looked at the two guards shivering in the cold without their cloaks. He shrugged and gave the signal for the gate to be opened. Samuel and Oliver did not know what to make of these strange events, both suspecting that this was some heinous game. When the gate had been raised, Henry nodded to the opening.
“Go. We give you your freedom. Tell your master when next you see him that we have done his bidding.”
They looked at the street beyond, still waiting for some treachery. Finally, Oliver kissed Henry’s hand.
“God bless you…Your Highness.”
Samuel pulled Oliver through the gate.
“Come on,” he pressed, “let’s get away from here before someone comes after us. I’ll die before I let them put us in there again!”
Minutes later they mingled with the hundreds of souls that were about their business on the bustling streets of London.
*
Two days later, Warwick and the Archbishop of York surveyed their army from atop the strong walls of Coventry.
“Are you certain?” Warwick asked his brother. “Montagu did nothing to hinder him while he pranced his pathetic little army within a dozen miles of Pontefract?”
“That is the report, Richard, but I think it was his only sensible course of action. He was without any following of his own, and received no aid from Northumberland.”
“That earl shall find his new title to be short-lived,” said Warwick with conviction. “I’ll have him back in the Tower as soon as I deal with Edward.”
Moments later, the post for which they waited arrived at Broadgate below them, and Warwick yelled to have him admitted immediately. When the messenger arrived on the wall, he knelt and waited to be recognized.
“Yes, yes,” said Warwick, “give us your news.”
“My lord, your brother the Marquis of Montagu bids me inform you that he will arrive within a week with four thousand men in good array. He also confirms that the Earl of Oxford will arrive a few days later with two thousand more.”
“This is comforting news, and well delivered,” the earl beamed. “And here is for your troubles,” he threw him his purse. The post bowed and quickly left, clutching more money than he had seen in his life. “Added to the army coming with Clarence, Edward will have no chance. As soon as everyone arrives, we shall make for London.”
*
Margaret waited impatiently for final preparations to be made for departure, her ship full of provisions for a landing in England. She cherished the thought of once again stepping on English soil as queen. With her was Anne, Warwick’s daughter, now betrothed to her son.
The prince was a young man of sixteen. The fact that Henry had not fathered him made little difference to Margaret, since he had been conceived to give Henry the heir that he needed. But the boy was stout and broad-shouldered like his real father, the Duke of Somerset, and was bold and daring like Henry could never have been. His sandy hair and hazel eyes belied the fire that burned in his soul — a fire that was fed by the desire to rule England as his mother had taught him was his right and only true destiny. With his new wife by his side, he followed his mother onto the boat. Forty other boats carried men and provisions, a fine company to escort the Prince of Wales, his mother, and his wife back.
With the next tide, they set sail, and were greeted with fair winds for a landing at Weymouth on England’s southern shore.
*
Edward led his army toward London knowing that only a swift and bold action could equalize his daunting odds. If he could convince the people of London to accept him as king, men would flock to his standard. But if the gates were closed against him, he would be forced to face Warwick and his formidable force. The cruelest news of all was that his brother, the Duke of Clarence, was approaching with four thousand soldiers for Warwick.
That evening, Sir Julian rested in his tent trying to remember if there was any precaution that he had overlooked for the safety of the camp. A sizable portion of pork that had been slaughtered and cooked that night sat on his plate untouched. He had never lacked for courage and, for himself, he felt no hesitation facing an enemy of far superior numbers, but to see the young men that he had trained and practically raised — to see them die needlessly…He stepped from the tent where Stanley stood guard at the entrance. Unable to look him in the eye, he studied the flat land around the camp, much of it being prepared for the coming planting season. The sun was setting over a low hill on the horizon and glared angry red over the land. A fair-sized village lay to the south.
“What is this place that lies nearby?” he asked.
“It is called Barnet, my lord.”
Sir Julian had heard of it, and remembered passing through years before on a journey north from London. He had witnessed precious little peace since then. How easy it is to send these young men to their deaths, and worse, how willingly they rush to comply.
“Have you prepared yourself for fighting, lad?”
“I have, my lord.”
“It will be a difficult day, and many of us will not see another sunset.”
“We have faced many such enemies,” Stanley said.
“Far too many,” Sir Julian agreed. “Try to sleep when your watch is over, lad. You’ll need all the rest you can manage.” Stepping back inside, he saw the still uneaten meat and thought that he really should force it down, but instead, he sat on a stool and tried to clear his mind. A rider approached and spoke to Stanley, who entered the tent.
“Sir Julian, the vanguard apprehended two men on the road this afternoon, both wearing the livery of the master of the Tower. When questioned, they asked for you by name. The guards wish to know your pleasure.”
“Men dressed in Lancastrian garb who wish to speak to me,” he mused. “Perhaps I’d better see them. Have them brought.” Some minutes later he heard steps approach, and Stanley burst in before the rider had arrived.
“Sir Julian! It’s Samuel!”
The old knight snapped to his feet and ran from the tent to see the guard leading two men toward him. He pulled up short when he saw Oliver and Samuel, still robed in the borrowed cloaks of the Tower guards, but so gaunt of face that he hardly recognized them.
Stanley embraced his old friend. Samuel grunted in pain and his knees buckled. Stanley caught him and lowered him gently to the ground. Sir Julian pushed him aside.
“What’s wrong with him?”
He spread Samuel’s cloak and cringed at the sight of the welts on his body, but could see no grave wounds.
“Bring him to my tent,” he barked. “Summon the surgeon and bring proper clothing and food for them both.”
The surgeon confirmed that Samuel and Oliver needed only rest and nourishment; both men ate large plates of pork and fowl, many of the guardsmen having donated their rations. Sir Julian let them sleep in his tent. It was a fitful sleep, and the old knight wondered what horrors they had been forced to suffer.
At first light, ale and wheat bread were brought to the tent. Samuel felt some strength in his legs for the first time in…well, he could not remember how long. Stepping out from beneath the flap to the outside, he was greeted by a cool but flawlessly sunny morning. He lifted his head and closed his eyes. The rays felt heavenly on his face. He fought the impulse to weep. Sir Julian’s voice came from behind.
“I truly regret that the path has been so difficult for you, lad.”
“Is my family safe, Sir Julian?” he asked, his eyes still closed against the sun.
“The last I heard from Sir Nigel, they were together and safe. His courier tells
me that he will be here this very day if all goes according to plan, and you can ask him yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir Julian. I owe you a great deal, even if it has seemed at times that I didn’t know that.”
“I know your heart well, my boy, and you need not thank me, I’ve done little enough.” Leaves glowed in the low early sunlight. “Come, lad, and put some more food in your gullet. You must tell me how you both came to be here.”
Pure wheat bread was a rare treat, and Samuel ate with abandon. The ale was strong and warmed him deeply. It was only then that he could tell the tale of their imprisonment at Colinsworth Castle and the Tower, of the hopelessness that had consumed them until their unlikely release by the demented King Henry himself. Even then, their journey had not been an easy one, as the gates of London were closed day and night in expectation of renewed civil unrest. A merchant had told them of Edward’s invasion, news that had lifted their spirits, knowing as they did that the downfall of the Lancastrians was necessary to end their nightmare. And yet, the vision of poor Henry standing inside the Tower gates haunted them.
“And you have no notion of why Henry released you?” Sir Julian asked.
Samuel shook his head. “We were certain that it was some game he was playing with us.”
“He kept asking about the Earl of Rutland,” Oliver added, “and I could not understand why. But he seemed quite lucid.”
“The Earl of Rutland? The king’s dead brother?”
“The same. And when he released us at the gate he said to tell my master that he had done his bidding. I only just now remembered that,” he added absently.
“This is not the kind of puzzle that the king needs to hear on the eve of what will surely be a difficult battle,” said Sir Julian. “I believe that old Henry perhaps heard the tale of the earl’s death and felt that the act of freeing you would somehow settle the score.”
Stanley burst through the flap. “Sir Julian, it’s Sir Nigel! There is a herald from the Duke of Clarence who asks for a parley with the king!”
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