The crossbowmen jogged towards the Lancastrians, while the men with arquebuses stopped to reload their clumsy weapons.
Brandon panicked. “To the castle,” he yelled, waving frantically at his men, “quickly, for your lives!”
“Sir,” shouted Martin, “take half the men. I’ll take the rest and hold off the Yorkists.”
Brandon, who had made it clear he regarded Martin as a mere sell-sword, and the scum of the earth, looked startled. “Ah…yes,” he stammered, “do so. Charles, Edmund, stay with him.”
Charles and Edmund, two of Brandon’s retainers from Suffolk, shouted at their mates to follow Martin. He was already sprinting towards the nearest crossbowman, shouting curses to put him off his aim.
The Yorkist was young, with barely a fuzz of beard on his cheeks, and his nerve broke. He had ample time to aim and shoot, but instead he dropped the crossbow and reached for his sword.
A bad mistake, and the last he made on earth. His blade was barely half-drawn before Martin was on him.
“God for Lancaster and Saint George! The White Hawk!”
Martin’s sabre cut through the air and sliced into the youth’s neck, cleaving downward in until it reached his hip, virtually cutting him in half. His body collapsed in a shower of blood and entrails, plastering Martin’s already filthy armour in hot gore.
Something whipped over Martin’s head as he wiped his face clean of blood, and almost parted his hair. One of the Yorkists had taken a pot-shot at him.
“You handless swine,” he roared, shaking his bloody sabre, “where in hells did you learn to shoot? If any man in my Company shot like that, I’d have his hide for a belt!”
His men tore into the outnumbered Yorkists. One lay in the mire with a crossbow bolt imbedded in his guts. Leaving the others to their work, Martin jogged over to him and knelt to inspect the wound.
“Sorry, lad,” he said, patting the dying man’s arm, “we would need a good surgeon to get that out, and we ain’t got one.”
He laid down his sabre and drew his dagger. “Best this way,” he said shortly, and plunged the blade into the man’s heart, leaning his weight on the hilt to make it as swift as possible.
Two dead. He looked towards the castle, and saw Brandon and his men streaming through the postern gate. The garrison had spotted their approach, thank God.
More Yorkists advanced from the north, drawn by the sound of fighting. A few were mounted, light horse with lances, guiding their horses carefully over the difficult ground.
Martin rose to his feet. “Leave off,” he shouted, “get to the castle. The castle!”
The others heard him and fled for the safety of the walls. They left five Yorkists dead and dying in the marsh, which Martin considered a decent tally.
He was the first to reach the gate, and the last through it, standing guard with his sabre while the others ran inside.
My, the brave officer, he thought, what a reputation you shall make.No-one shall know how you pissed yourself in terror at the Siege of Stein, or used a dying comrade as a shield against gunfire at Gozzoburg.
The Yorkists were careful to stay well beyond range of the walls, and confined themselves to insults. Martin grinned, stuck two fingers up at them, and heaved the door shut.
He was stuck inside Hammes Castle for another month. The Yorkists sent for reinforcements from Calais, so they could throw a tighter cordon around the walls.
“God help poor soldiers,” he remarked one glum afternoon, leaning idly on a merlon and picking at a bit of loose masonry. About quarter of a mile to the west the Yorkists were hard at work priming their artillery, such as it was.
“Two pathetic little demi-culverins,” he sneered, “pop-guns, scarcely able to knock over a tree. What is the point? They might as well save their powder.”
“They have to be seen to make an effort,” said Brandon, “King Richard is a hard master, and expects results.”
Martin wagged a finger at him. “Richard Plantagenet, not King Richard,” he said in a tone of mock reproof, “or else you may call him false usurper, homicide and kinslayer. Those are the rules, as set down by our lord and king, Henry the Seventh.”
Brandon smiled, white teeth showing in a hedge of black beard. “Thank you. I was forgetting. Richmond already calls himself king, and seals his letters with a royal signet. Yet he has fought no battles, and won not a foot of land.”
“Yet,” said Martin. He and Brandon had become unlikely friends. The knight was not too proud to admit he panicked during the Yorkist ambush, or to acknowledge Martin’s part in rescuing the situation.
Martin snorted with laughter. One of the Yorkist crewman had accidentally dropped a cannonball on his mate’s foot, and the two had fallen to blows. A third man tried to intervene and suffered a fat lip for his pains.
“Fifteen hundred men,” said Martin, “that was the number of mercenaries promised by Lord Cordes, last we were in Paris.”
Brandon looked unconvinced. “Sell-swords,” he muttered, “cowardly Frenchmen and beggarly Bretons. We can’t hope to invade England with such a rag-bag little force.”
“You might regard those cowards and beggars in a different light when it comes to battle,” replied Martin, “I know proper soldiers when I see them. So does Lord Cordes. I had a good look at those fifteen hundred at Pont de l’Arche. Good lads, and they know their business. Swiss, some of them. Best soldiers in Europe.”
“You think so? Against mounted knights and men-at-arms? They would be swept away in the first melee.”
Martin whistled through his teeth. Brandon was a brave knight, but knew nothing of the latest developments in war outside England. He hoped the Yorkists were in a similar state of ignorance.
“Have you ever seen a charge of knights against a disciplined wall of pikes and arquebuses?” he asked, “I have. Alas for chivalry! The old ways are dying out, Thomas. Gunpowder and shot take the place of lance and sword.”
Brandon didn’t look happy with that, and turned his attention to the Yorkist cannon. “Watch out,” he said, “they are about to fire.”
“Oh dear,” Martin replied indifferently, “should we surrender now, or later?”
There was a brief roar of gunfire, followed by a sharp crack as one of the seven-pounder balls smashed against the foot of the wall they stood on. It chipped off a small piece of mortar, rebounded and bounced away. The other gun missed completely, no mean feat given the size of its target.
Martin laughed, and went off in search of supper.
The futile siege dragged on to the end of February, when the Yorkists sent an envoy under a flag of truce to the gate.
As captain of the garrison, Brandon spoke with him from the rampart. Martin and a few of Brandon’s retainers were also present.
“We offer terms,” declared the envoy, “in return for surrendering the castle, you and your men will be given safe-conduct, and allowed to depart in peace with your baggage and weapons. Lady Blount is permitted to go with you.”
Sir James Blount had left his wife behind when he fled from Hammes. She was a stolid, pleasant woman with a dry wit, and Martin had whiled away many hours playing chess with her.
Brandon turned to Martin. “What do you think?” he asked, “it sounds reasonable. They can’t get in, and I’m sick of this bloody place.”
Martin thought for a moment. “Oxford must be somewhere nearby,” he said, “he promised to relieve us once he had gathered enough men. The Yorkists don’t want to be caught between two fires, so they offer terms while they can get them. I suggest you accept. This castle is of little use to our cause.”
Brandon agreed, and soon afterwards the entire garrison, with Lady Blount to the fore, rode out of Hammes with banners flying and honour intact.
“A little victory,” remarked Martin, “and another fifty men to join Richmond’s cause. Not a bad bit of work.”
He spoke lightly, but his intent was deadly serious. The war, and Martin’s personal quest for redemption, had o
nly just begun.
Chapter 19
Rouen, April 1485
There were times when Elizabeth missed her alter-ego. Her uncle insisted she put aside Maud the Knife and behave like a lady, which meant doffing her men’s clothes and wearing a dress.
For his sake, and the sake of propriety, Elizabeth consented. She avoided the garish headdresses, as worn by noblewomen at the French court, and restricted herself to a long white smock and a kirtle, a one-piece garment with lacings up the sides.
Even in this relatively loose attire, Elizabeth felt scratchy and uncomfortable. As a sop to her past, and the very real dangers of the present, she kept her knife. Lacking a belt, she strapped it to the upper part of her left arm, hidden under the sleeve.
If she struggled to look like a lady, Elizabeth had no less difficulty behaving like one. A true lady of the court acted with decorum at all times. She would not, for instance, have used her charms on a hapless French guardsman to sneak into a private meeting, to which only Henry of Richmond and a few of his closest allies were invited to.
The meeting was held inside an airy, vaulted chamber on an upper floor of the donjon tower of Rouen Castle. Richmond sat on a high-backed chair, while his uncle Pembroke stood to his left. The Earl of Oxford, Sir Edward Woodville, Richard Fox and Edward Poynings sat on lower benches.
Elizabeth kept to the shadows by the stair and listened to their talk.
“Will he come back to us?” Richmond demanded. Elizabeth thought he looked even paler than usual.
“Cheney assures us he will, Majesty,” replied Fox, “they will stay a little longer at Compiégne, and then return to Paris together.”
“We sincerely hope so,” said Richmond, “we thought Dorset was staunch. Curse Richard. How in God’s name did he manage to make a friend of the Queen?”
Elizabeth suspected they were discussing Thomas Grey, the Marquess of Dorset. Dorset had recently caused a stir by abandoning Richmond’s court in Paris and fleeing north for the coast.
It was thought his mother, Queen Elizabeth, had enticed him to desert the pretender and return to England. In spite of the disappearance of her sons in the Tower, the Queen had come to a rapprochement with Richard Plantagenet, and, publicly at least, declared herself his friend.
Wary of further desertions, Richmond decided to leave Paris and move to Rouen, where he was assembling a fleet of ships in the mouth of the Seine. The time had come for action, even though his resources were still limited.
Elizabeth’s impressions of Richmond were mixed. He was slender, but strongly-built and above average height, with dark brown hair flowing to his shoulders. His face was pale and thin, striking rather than handsome, with deep lines scored into his brow and the corners of his mouth.
She reckoned that a man’s eyes revealed his soul. Not in Richmond’s case. His eyes were small and blue, and watched the world from under hooded lids, carefully weighing and assessing and never, ever giving away their owner’s true thoughts.
Closer study revealed flaws. His left eye had a slight cast in it, and his teeth were poor, suggesting either negligence or bad health. He spoke English with a slight French accent, the legacy of years of exile.
Elizabeth thought he looked more clerk than king, and struggled to imagine him leading an army into battle, much less trading blows with King Richard in the heat of the press.
“How look the men, my lord Oxford?” Richmond asked hopefully, glancing at the earl.
John de Vere put Elizabeth in mind of a faithful old dog, loyal and greying and slightly arthritic. His escape from Hammes was the stuff of ballads, but the solid, middle-aged survivor before her was no romantic hero.
“Shaping up well, sire,” he replied gruffly, “good soldiers, if a touch shabby to look at. I’ve been drilling them hard, but they show no signs of flagging.”
Richmond pursed his thin lips. “We need more. Fifteen hundred French, Bretons and Swiss. Five hundred Scots. Four hundred English, including those from Hammes. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.”
“Lord Cordes has promised another thousand French, and a few pieces of ordnance,” said Pembroke. Elizabeth had noted how he always stayed close to his nephew, like an anxious mother hen.
“There is always Wales, sire,” added Fox, “never forget, the Welsh lords see you as the Son of Prophecy. A true descendent of their old heroes. They might pretend to serve Richard, but their hearts are with you.”
“God grant you are right,” said Richmond, and turned his head toward the stair, “you may come out now, Lady Bolton.”
Elizabeth gasped, and stepped out of the shadows. How had he detected her presence?
Richmond’s friends stared at her in mute astonishment, but their master wore a knowing look.
“There are no women on our council,” he said, “have you come to offer your thoughts?”
“I…” Elizabeth reached for an answer that wouldn’t sound foolish, or even incriminating, “I merely wanted to listen, Majesty. One grows tired of relying on hearsay.”
“We quite agree. Might we ask how you got past the guard?”
“I persuaded him to let me through, sire.”
Elizabeth resorted to her old skills, and gave Richmond a melting smile. Cultivated over long years in The Cardinal’s Hat, it was guaranteed to put men in good humour.
She may as well have tossed a snowball into a furnace.
“Did you, indeed?” he said coldly, “we must speak with the captain of the guard. Still, now you are here, you may as well sit and listen.”
“First, however,” he added as she moved towards one of the benches, “you will remove that wicked little knife from your sleeve and give it to my uncle for safe keeping.”
How does he know? Elizabeth wondered as Pembroke lumbered towards her, holding out his hand. She withdrew the knife and gave it to him, hilt-first.
“Lady Elizabeth Bolton,” said Richmond while she found a seat, “we know something of your family’s history. A very sad and bloody one it is too. The men of your family have suffered greatly in our cause.”
Our cause, she noticed. Richmond was the sole surviving Lancastrian heir, and clearly saw himself as the rightful heir to poor, mad King Henry the Sixth.
His hard blue eyes drilled into her. “Never fear, my lady. The sacrifices of the Boltons shall not be forgotten. All you have lost, you shall have again, when we take our rightful throne from the murderer that currently occupies it.”
But no more than that. Richmond was clearly not one to make extravagant promises.
Elizabeth decided she didn’t like him, much. She preferred men in the mould of Sir Edward Woodville, brave and knightly and open in their dealings. Richmond was secretive, and sly, and altogether too clever by half.
He doesn’t want to be liked, she realised, he wants to win.
The House of Lancaster had been on the receiving end of so many defeats, it was hard to imagine victory. Elizabeth had known nothing but shame and hardship in her life, the bitter fruits of defeat.
Could this strange, enigmatic man be the one to redeem past failures? As he talked, reeling off the detail of current affairs in England, Wales and France with little apparent effort, hope grew inside her.
Chapter 20
Nottingham, 23rd June 1485
“Let me hear it again,” said Richard.
The herald swallowed, placed his hands behind his back, and took a deep breath.
“Forasmuch as the King our sovereign lord,” he bellowed in a voice designed to be heard in crowded marketplaces, “has certain knowledge that Henry Tydder, calling himself Earl of Richmond, with other diverse rebels and traitors disabled and attainted by authority of the high court of parliament, namely Thomas Grey late Marquis of Dorset, Jasper Tydder who calls himself Earl of Pembroke, John late Earl of Oxford and Sir Edward Woodville, all of whom are known to be open murderers, adulterers and extortioners, contrary to the pleasure of God and against all truth, honour and nature…”
Richa
rd closed his eyes and let the words wash over him. It was good. His heralds had been at work for days on this proclamation, which he intended to be read out in all the major towns and cities of England. By the time they were done, the whole realm would be united in fear and hatred of Richmond and his allies.
“…have forsaken their country, and abased themselves before England’s natural enemy Charles calling himself King of France, and begged for his aid in overthrowing the true and rightful King of England. The said Henry Tydder, in his ambitious and insatiable greed, has taken upon himself the name and title of royal estate of this realm of England, to which he has no true right whatever, as every man knows…”
‘Tydder’ was the Welsh version of Richmond’s family name. Richard had chosen to use it in the proclamation, thinking it would suitably strange and alien to the ears of his English subjects.
“…with the intent of achieving by the aid, support and assistance of England’s ancient enemies, the said Henry Tydder and all the other rebels and traitors aforesaid intend at their coming to perform the most cruel murders, slaughters and robberies that ever were seen in any Christian realm. To avert these dangers, the King our sovereign lord desires, wills and charges all and every of his subjects, like good and true Englishmen, to exert all their powers for the defence of themselves, their wives, children, goods and inheritances against the malicious purposes of the said rebels and traitors…”
The herald had turned a shade of puce, so Richard waved at him to stop.
“Enough,” he said, “we have heard enough. You may breathe.”
He turned to Bishop Stillington, who had helped to draft the text, based on an earlier proclamation used the previous year.
“We congratulate you,” said Richard, “on such a remarkable blend of lies and half-truths. Let us hope our subjects swallow it.”
Stillington bowed. “Happy to serve, Majesty,” he replied.
Richard contemplated his preparations for Richmond’s invasion, which was expected any day. According to Richard’s network of spies in France, the pretender had assembled a fleet at Rouen and an army of some three thousand ragged mercenaries. These were scarcely enough to threaten the realm, but Richmond was not without friends and well-wishers on British soil.
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