Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  Peter stumbled, and Carnahan, surprised and off balance, blundered forward. Peter’s punishing blade cut the man’s dagger hand, forcing him to drop the knife. Peter whipped back catching the hilt of Carnahan’s sword, and wrenched with every ounce of energy he had left. It spun out of the man’s hand. The point of Peter’s blade rested on Carnahan’s throat. “One of Herr Duer’s tricks, Mister Carnahan..” He spoke to his men. “Lash his hands. We ride to the King at Salisbury.”

  Stricken, Carnahan stared back. He turned to the men guarding Catharine. But two of Peter’s retainers had already disarmed them. For a moment Carnahan looked as if he’d run, eyes like cornered prey.

  “Give it up, Carnahan. You have at least two more days of life left if you stop now. Two days. A lot can happen in two days,” Peter said. The man relaxed. Guards lashed his hand behind his back ,and haltered his legs.

  Flanked by two of Peter’s men, Buckingham stepped forward. “You mean this? To turn us over to the King?” His voice shrill, grated in Peter’s ears.

  Peter sat down suddenly, sword loose in his hands. He stared up at the Lancaster prince. “You have much to answer for, Your Grace. I’m sure, at the very least, the King would want to question you about your military exercises.”

  “Do not make light of me, Lord Trobridge.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Peter said. “I think he’ll give you a quick trial before the Vice Constable, and cut your head off in market square.”

  Buckingham recoiled, but kept his mouth shut.

  “Why didn’t you kill me, Trobridge?” Carnahan asked. “I would have killed you.” A wadded handkerchief in his hand stanched the blood from the wound. Another bandage was tied around his shoulder.

  “My desire to kill you ran to ashes when I realized what I’d become if I let the hate continue.” Peter frowned. “I saw your pain over Castor Breckenridge. It was the same as my pain over my friend’s death. Where does it end? What do we gain from hurting someone, the killing, the degrading?” He shook his head.

  “Control,” Carnahan said, face hard, and eyes focused on Peter. “Control of men. Control of situations. Power. What else is there?”

  “Control? Unwilling men doing your bidding out of fear?” Peter said, eyes sad. “Ruined lives so a man can gain something that belongs to someone else? Madness. That is what this has been about.”

  “Your plea will go unheard, my lord, until people lose the desire to possess, to control,” Carnahan said bitterly.

  “Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, you have been found guilty of high treason. Of planning, inciting, and conducting rebellion against your lawful King.” Sir Ralph Assheton, Vice Constable of England, stared at the trembling man standing before him. Dark rage congested Assheton’s face. Peter watched the dreaded man known as The Black Knight struggle for composure. Buckingham cast fugitive glances around the large pavilion erected in a field outside of Salisbury.

  “Have you anything to say before I pronounce sentence?” Sir Ralph’s worn heavy features betrayed disgust. He did not look at the man before him. Peter stood. to one side, back of the Vice Constable, sickened at the sight of the duke falling apart.

  “I ... I demand to see the King. His Grace must see me,” Buckingham said, his voice hurried, speech almost slurred.

  “You demand?” Sir Ralph said, voice rising, contempt staining his words. “The King will not grant you an audience.” He cleared his throat. “The verdict of treason demands death, but mindful of your past services to the Crown, the King does not demand vengeance. You will not be hanged, gelded, disemboweled, and then beheaded while still living. For that you should thank the King’s mercy.” He paused. “Many sought to persuade him otherwise. Tomorrow at ten o’clock you shall pay the supreme penalty for your crimes. You will be beheaded in market square.” He waved a meaty hand in front of his face as though brushing away a bug. “Remove the traitor.”

  A medium-sized man with a square beard bent over the shocked Buckingham. John Milton, Sheriff of Shropshire, whispered something in the condemned man’s ear. Buckingham’s eyes, near wild with disbelief, darted around the tent. Then he shook his head as though finally comprehending. He took a step toward the Vice Constable. “It’s not a priest that can help me, it’s the King.” But Assheton, papers in hand, was already leaving the tent, and if he heard did not respond. Two men-at-arms, with John Milton, escorted the shaken man away.

  The tent emptied until Peter sat alone. He pulled his cloak closer, and remembered another time and trial - after the Battle of Tewkesbury where York buried forever the hopes of the House of Lancaster. In the small wood paneled room Peter had stared stricken at his uncle.

  “Is that your decision?” Edward IV, tall, blond, terrible in his strength and beauty, waited. Then he said impulsively, “God, man, swear fealty to me now, and you’re free with our pardon.” He looked at Peter’s father. “Plead with him, Richard.”

  The tension in the small room raked into the men. “Will, please.” The two simple words carried everything, the hope and the fear, the past and the future, held in a phrase.

  William Trevor, face seamed with dirt, eyes hollow with fatigue, smiled. “I thank Your Grace. I cannot. I’m sworn to the Duke of Somerset and Lancaster.” He turned to Peter. “Your agony, Peter. I wish I could take it away. People have different needs and destinies. Can you understand that, lad?”

  The ghastly realization of what was to come swelled in Peter’s throat and spilled out in his voice, all agony and tears. “No, I don’t. It doesn’t need to be. Uncle Will, say the words.”

  “I’m sorry, lad. Richard, take care of our heir. Teach him to love justice.” He turned to the King. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m ready to join the others.”

  “If that is your will.”

  The trial had been short; before the heavy and grizzled John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and England’s Earl Marshall, and dark and slight Richard Plantagenet, the eighteen year old Duke of Gloucester, the King’s brother, and England’s Lord Constable. The man Peter had saved from certain death. The King in white shirt, sober brown doublet, and dark silk hose, sat to one side, a circlet of gold on his golden head, and listened impassively while the charges were read and the pleas taken.

  Peter sat with his father and the other York lords, participants in the tension, witness to the brisk business of ordering death. His uncle caught his eye, and smiled with a nod. William Trevor stood, battle stained and weary, with the other twelve battle captains and their lord, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, in a guarded roped off square before their judges.

  Peter felt his father’s fingers bite into his arm, and turned to see a face wrecked with grief, aged before its time. Unshed tears trembled, then streamed down Peter’s cheeks. He wiped them away with his free hand. Peter could only listen, as one by one each man was pronounced guilty and sentenced to death. Richard’s young voice, measured, said, “The King, in his mercy, does not seek vengeance. He waives the right of disembowelment. The right of honorable burial is granted.”

  Peter sucked in a deep breath, remembering. His father had insisted he watch the executions the next day. Shaking with anger and grief, his father said, “I want you to remember what dynastic ambition and misplaced loyalties mean, the horrors they engender, and the lasting pain they inflict.”

  He watched. Seen the sword flash fourteen times, the surprised heads jump and tumble, and the blood. So much blood. He’s helped the servants collect his uncle’s body, and numbed with grief, wrapped his uncle’s head in soft linen stained with blood and his tears. The King had given them leave to take the body home for burial.

  “Peter. Peter.” Her voice pulled him away, back to the present. He shook himself and looked at Catharine.

  “I ... ”

  “I know. You’ve been sitting here for an hour, your face a fierce mask of emotion. Your men-at-arms and squires are too frightened to say anything. They sent for me. I can imagine what witnessing that trial has done to you. Made you
remember what happened a dozen years ago, and fifty miles away.”

  He enjoyed her cool fingers touching his face. “I’m sorry. It is cruelly fresh as yesterday.”

  “Perhaps that is the value of memories. Their eternal freshness make their lessons, if we learn them, guardians of our present,” Catharine said.

  “You’re right.” He stood up. “I’m making a fool out of myself. Sitting here ... ”

  “No, you’re not. You need to talk about it. Share the pain. Get it past you.” She sat down and spread her grey velvets skirts around her. The fur trimmed cloak fell back showing her deep red hair.

  “It won’t ever be past me, Catharine,” he said, “but the sharing, that’s another thing.” He wiped his face with his open hands, and was surprised to feel the wetness. “It would be good. Having monsters chasing around in your head with no outlet can make you mad.” Then sitting in the deserted pavilion, he told her of the nightmare of Tewkesbury.

  He’d sat sweating in his Milanese armor, made at the famous Missaglia workshops, waiting for the battle to begin. Old Nick shifted under his weight, the men around him muttering prayers and curses. Fourteen household knights, armored and mounted, waited with him. To his left, less than fifty feet away, Richard Plantagenet waited with his household knights and squires.

  The nightmare of battle swarmed around him. Heart pounding, he slashed at whatever clashed and moved within range of his bloodied sword. Men and horses screamed. Then to his left he saw three mounted knights close with the unprotected Richard Plantagenet, the King’s brother. Peter spurred Old Nick, and charged the unsuspecting knights, creating a wedge between them and their quarry. Sword swinging, and buckler raised, he saw one knight fall from the saddle and scream as he died under the hooves of his war horse. Old Nick raised on his hind quarters and fought with another battle stallion. Peter held on with his thighs, and cut with his sword. He felt the steel bury itself in a helm, and saw the second knight crumple from the saddle. The riderless horse shied and ran from the bared teeth and slashing hooves of Old Nick, now in a battle frenzy.

  Fighting for control, he watched Richard engage the third knight, and bring him down. The sea of battle surging around them, eased and fell away. The two men raised their helmet visors, and recognized each other. Richard saluted with his war hammer. “You will be remembered,” he said. Then flipping down his visor, he lead his troop in the thick of foray, war hammer swinging.

  The rest of the battle went on in a haze of bloody fatigue. He swung his sword automatically, arm leadened. Then in one miraculous moment it was over, and not yet noon. In blood splashed and dented armor he knelt on ‘Bloody Meadow’, and accepted the accolade of knighthood form his sovereign, Edward IV, the tall blond giant, equally splashed with blood. The bloody sword descended, tapping him on each shoulder. And he rose, hearing the words of King Edward as if in a dream. His father hugged him, armor to armor, and he heard the King and his father exchange words, in the excitement of battle camaraderie.

  Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, had come by later and thanked him personally. The slim youth, two years older than Peter’s sixteen, had accepted the silver goblet of wine and spoke of the battle and his debt.

  “You saved his life,” Catharine said, her voice bringing him back to the present.

  “Yes. And then there was Uncle William, your plight-troth at the time.” He swallowed, grateful for her hands holding his.

  She gave a faint smile. “How little did we know we were linked even then.”

  They found Sir William Trevor after the battle with the other Lancaster captains and the Duke of Somerset in the nave of St. Mary’s Abbey. Worn with fatigue, battle stained and bloody, Will had stared back and bowed.

  “Uncle Will always had a sense of humor,” Peter said. He told the painful scene where his uncle had denied the his King and died for it.

  “And your father forced you to watch his execution? How insanely cruel,” she said, anger in her voice.

  “No,” Peter said, voice worn. “It wasn’t really. He wanted me to see the price dynastic ambition can extract from a people. The needless hell you can go through because of it.” He wiped his face clean of tears. “It was his way of getting me to see.”

  “You don’t have to watch Buckingham die, you know,” she said.

  “No, I don’t.” He gave a rueful smile. “But part of me says be there just to make sure it will happen.”

  “Carnahan will hang tomorrow morning,” she said.

  “I know. I owe the man.” Peter dragged a hand through his thick hair, and wished for a place to hide his savaged emotions. His wounds ached like hell.

  “Owe the man?” Catharine clenched her fist. “How can you say you owe the man anything?”

  “Maybe it’s myself I owe. But I’m going to see him before the afternoon is finished. Did Abby ride with you?” Peter shifted in his seat and stood.

  “Yes. I couldn’t keep her in London. I bet by now she and Agnes are plotting about the baby, who’s going to spend the most time with it. A real pair, those two.” Catharine rose and took his arm.

  Carnahan stared up at Peter, but made no move to rise. His feverish eyes, bloodshot, rested on Peter’s face. The late afternoon light illuminated the grey blue rock cell. It seeped and stank.

  The jailor cursed, “Get up, man, for his lordship.” He aimed a kick, but the mercenary captain made a quick move and the jailor sprawled on his face, keys clanging on the uneven rock floor.

  The jailor sputtered, and rolled in the filthy rushes in alarm. Peter grinned, and helped the indignant man to his feet. He wrinkled his nose at the man’s stench, slipped him several silver pennies, and jerked his head to the door.

  “Yer Lordship.” Fear in his eyes, the man touched his forehead with two fingers and left.

  “So what does the Lord of Trobridge want with a condemned man?” Carnahan gestured with the clotted handkerchief in his wounded hand. His unshaven face, dirty, cracked into a smile, old with cynicism. “I would offer you a chair, but ... ”

  “You face the hangman tomorrow.” Peter pulled a pewter flask from the pocket of his robe. “Drink this when they come for you. By the time they put a rope around your neck, you won’t feel a thing.”

  Carnahan swallowed, shaken, and took the flask. “Why should you do that for me? I’ve done everything evil a man could think of to you and yours, and you’re doing me a favor. Are you mad?”

  Peter smiled faintly. “No. I don’t feel sorry for you either. A man with your education and lack of ethics is better off dead.”

  “Then why?” Carnahan gave a short laugh of disbelief, and ran his good hand through his unkempt hair. “I’m hanging tomorrow, remember? Why are you doing this? What is the point?” He opened his wounded hand. The palm slash showed red, puckered, and pus ridden. Proud flesh.

  “I’m not sure.” Peter regarded the fevered man. “We share the brotherhood of the sword. You loved your son. I thought it was worth something, your bravery, and courage. The love.”

  Carnahan swallowed, tears welling unshed. He blinked and looked away. When he turned back, his cheeks were wet. “There is one thing. The boy Ned.” He cleared his throat, and spat into the floor rushes. A chill October wind blew through the iron barred window high in the grey rock room. Carnahan shivered.

  “Your son?” Peter pulled off his heavy hooded robe, and dropped it beside Carnahan. The man looked stunned, then something living grew in his eyes.

  “Aye. He has no one else.” Carnahan ran his hand over the expensive cloth of the robe. “Could you take him into your household?” He looked up, face drawn, eyes fevered with hope.

  “Done. I’ll send a good dinner and breakfast with my doctor,” Peter said. “She’s an old herb woman. Do as she says. The jailor will not bother you.” He turned to go.

  Carnahan cleared his throat once more. “About your ruined face, Lord Trobridge, I suspect you’ve learned a thing or two worth knowing about yourself since having it.”


  “Aye,” Peter said. “I have.”

  The study of the Abbot of Sherbourne shown with candle light. Pete and Catharine entered the warm, wood paneled, elegantly appointed room. A smiling Francis Lovell, the Lord Chancellor, motioned them forward. Richard Plantagenet, By the Grace of God King of England, stood, pleased and confident, before the master chair by Abbot Ramsam’s massive oak desk. “Welcome, Lord and Lady Trobridge, ” he said.

  “Seven times you have come to my rescue in my times of crisis. Once you saved me on the field of battle. Once in saving my nephews from Buckingham. Once in uncovering Buckingham’s and Lady Stanley’s treachery. Twice in saving my good servant Lord Caxton. Once when I called you with your men to serve in quelling this rebellion. And once again in capturing the traitor Buckingham.”

  Peter knelt and kissed the coronation ring. Catharine did likewise. The King gestured, and they stood. Catharine smelled the fresh scent of beeswax from the timed candle now reading eight o’clock at night. A thin gold circlet graced the King’s dark head. His sharp features reflected a relaxed humor. “Peter, your family has ever been loyal to the Crown. Never has treachery touched your House.” He picked up a page heavy with official ink, and stamped with his personal seal of the White Boar and the Privy Seal of England.

  “We are grateful. To represent this, we are raising you to the rank of earl. My brother knighted you on Bloody Meadow for saving my life and rallying our troops in time of need. Tonight we are doing nothing more than you deserve. We are creating you First Earl of Trobridge.” He handed Peter the paper and laughed. “I am told when you married, the fury of Lancaster fell upon unsuspecting York.”