The Lord of Greenwich (The Plantagenets Book 5)

by Juliet Dymoke

  He paused in the act of mounting. 'You have dug your own grave, Richard,' he said, 'with folly for your pick,' and he rode out towards Southampton to rouse a sleepy magistrate from his bed.

  In the morning he was one of the court to sit for the trial of the three men. It took little time for their guilt was clear. Lord Scrope denied the charge vigorously, but though Cambridge made a feeble attempt to defend himself terror had seized him and his defence was a net full of holes, incriminating words in among protestations of innocence. York, perspiring in the heat of the courtroom, could do nothing to save his brother, and sat slumped in his chair listening to the evidence. Only when sentence was passed did he give Richard a last reproachful look. The King listened stern-faced to the sentence and intervened only to commute the horrifying death reserved for traitors to a simple beheading. Cambridge and Sir Thomas Gray were to be executed at once but Lord Scrope was to suffer the ignominy of being dragged through the streets to the place of public execution. 'Harry is more sickened by his perfidy than by all the rest,' Humfrey said to Thomas and his brother nodded. 'To have a friend desert one is bad enough, but this! They could have slain us all.'

  'And I've not done with life,' Humfrey added and saw Clarence raise his eyebrows.

  Holy Saints, Thomas has no humour at all, Humfrey thought. Even on this unhappy day he himself would rather laugh at life than weep, but he could not stay to watch poor foolish Richard's head struck from his shoulders.

  Late that night Harry went to the small chamber where the Earl of March sat and shivered despite the warmth of the summer evening.

  'It is done,' the King said. 'They are dead, many others will be hanged. Do you like the look of treason, cousin?'

  Edmund raised a blotched face. 'Your grace . . . I came to you . . .'

  'Yes,' Harry said, 'you came, whatever motive sent you, fear or love, I know not which.' And Edmund whispered 'Love, Sire, oh believe it.'

  Harry sighed. 'Perhaps. If I pardon you, Edmund, will you come to France with me, serve me loyally?'

  Edmund fell on his knees and seized Harry's hand to kiss it. 'Always, cousin, always.'

  'Then get up,' Harry said briskly. 'You shall sail with me.'

  On the seventh day of August the wind was fair and Humfrey went aboard the King's ship, The Trinity, a fine vessel all newly painted. At once the King had the mast raised and the signal went from one ship to another through the harbour, along the coast to other smaller harbours, until the whole fleet of near fifteen hundred ships was ready to sail. But before The Trinity had cleared port there were sudden yells of 'Fire! Fire!' and a ship nearby seemed to explode into flames. Two others began to burn, sparks flying upwards, timbers blazing and men on other vessels scrambling to fill buckets and dowse sails with water. The panic lasted nearly an hour and the three ships were destroyed but no others caught fire. One of the sailors on the King's ship muttered that it was surely an evil omen. Some of the crowd gathered at the harbour were echoing his fear, calling out that God was against this assault on France, that He was angered with the King.

  Harry gave no sign of having heard and as soon as the debris settled, and despite the last timbers still burning on the surface of the water, gave the order to sail.

  'Look!' Humfrey leaned over the rail, 'Look, Sire!' He began to laugh, 'Jesu, there's the answer to the Job's comforters among our people.'

  The King came to stand by his side and saw, sailing majestically and unconcernedly towards the estuary, a flotilla of magnificent white swans.

  'My own badge!' he said and smiled back at Humfrey. 'Now there is a true omen.'

  A cheer went up among the sailors, echoed by the spectators on land, banners were raised, young knights crowded to the rails waving towards the shore, and slowly the great fleet moved out to sea.

  Humfrey turned his face into the wind, exhilarated by the sun and the sea and the great adventure on which they were set. He thought of the drab days of his father's reign and glanced towards Harry, his face alight. But the King, ever practical, had already turned away and was deep in conversation with Warwick and Clarence, at the same time watching intently as the sailors set about their task of taking him across the water to the enemy's coast.

  Young Richard Neville came to Humfrey's side and stood by him watching the gentle lifting of the waves.

  'When will we see France, my lord?'

  Humfrey set a hand on his shoulder. 'Not for some days yet. We are bound for Harfleur.'

  'Will there be a great battle, and may I bear a lance?'

  Humfrey smiled at the eager boy. 'Your father bade me have a care for you and you are over young yet.' He saw the swift disappointment and added, 'But I'll not let you go home without some French trinket to lay in my Aunt Joan's lap, and won by your own hands into the bargain.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The rain had been falling steadily all day and Humfrey sat on his horse acutely aware of the fact that he was soaked to the skin, tired and very hungry. Beside him was the twenty year old Earl of Huntingdon. John Holland had inherited great beauty of face from his grandmother, once called the Fair Maid of Kent, but having been splashed from head to foot as they tried to ford the river earlier in the day that beauty was not visible beneath a plastering of dirt.

  'Cock's bones,' he said irritably after a long silence, broken only by the jangle of accoutrements, the horses' hooves making little sound in the churned mud, 'will we never find a crossing? The King must be mad to take us further and further east.'

  'He was not to know the French were defending the ford so heavily.' Humfrey put up a gloved hand to pull the hood further over his face. He was in armour as they all were, but he had given his helm to Elys and wrapped a thick cloak over the steel. 'This damned rain. The river is so swollen I fear our scouts won't find the causeways.'

  'If there are any not spiked or broken by the French,' Huntingdon said gloomily.

  'Isn't the King doing just what the French want him to do? They're luring us away from the coast and our supplies.' Roger Courtney, on Humfrey's other side, leaned forward, his saddle creaking. 'Is it wise to campaign with winter coming on?'

  'The King says the taking of Harfleur, rich as it was, was not worth the two years of planning it took us to get here,' Huntingdon pointed out.

  'Well, I can't help wishing I'd gone home with my lords of Warwick and Clarence and all the booty and prisoners. At least they'll have Christmas at home and where shall we be?'

  'In Calais or under the sod,' Humfrey retorted flippantly. 'There are no half measures with my brother.'

  It was true, for after the taking of Harfleur Harry had refused to listen to the more cautious who advised a return until the spring. Harfleur had yielded after a month, terrified by the constant nightly bombarding of the guns which kept them from sleep.

  Humfrey had found to his own surprise a growing interest in the use of these clumsy weapons. He asked Harry to give him the direction of them. 'Our knights may scorn them,' he said, 'but I tell you, Harry, their proper use will speed up the business of siege and save lives that we need to press home our advantage.'

  'I give you full command of them,' Harry had said. 'Convince me.' And Humfrey did so with such effect that the defenders were harassed beyond bearing. They waited in vain for help from the French King who seemed to have under-rated their enemy, and though they repaired the damage done by the largest gun known to the exultant English as The King’s daughter, the bombardment went on and Humfrey walked among his gunners, praising the men and talking with the master about ways of improving the range of their missiles.

  'Ugly cumbersome things,' Edmund Mortimer commented. He had killed a Frenchman in a sortie and was proud of his newfound manhood. 'It is no way for a knight to fight.'

  Humfrey grinned at him. 'They are the future and we'll never make war without them again so you'd better get used to it.'

  The young Earl was shocked. 'In place of our chivalry?'

  'Oh no,' Humfrey said, 'we could not do wit
hout your skill, cousin.'

  Edmund saw that Humfrey was laughing at him and went off in a huff.

  At last, when the food ran out, the garrison surrendered. The English poured in but the King forbade his men to sack or burn the town. He was, he reminded them, Duke of Normandy, these were his people and he meant to march through his Duchy.

  The French army was more than one hundred and fifty miles away at Vernon and it seemed reasonable to expect to be able to reach Calais in eight to ten days, thus proving he could move unmolested across land he considered his own. At first there had been no hold-ups, the army disciplined and marching well, and thinking of that orderly beginning, Humfrey said, 'Harry will get us through if anyone can.'

  'It's this cursed river,' Huntingdon said, staring at the grey water of the Somme. 'My men have only a day's rations left. We had enough for a straight march to Calais but not enough to go junketing through France.'

  'We'll come to some village or other soon and maybe find food,' Roger suggested hopefully. 'Jesu, what I wouldn't give for a smell of roasting venison.'

  'More than a smell,' Humfrey grinned at him, but the situation was not a humorous one and he knew it. Dysentery had decimated their army. His own brother Thomas was clasping his belly and cursing the bloody flux, and though he himself had been free of it, many of his men were sick, including Elys, and he had lost a number of foot soldiers. Worst of all, at Harfleur, his friend Dean Courtney had died and so too had the Earl of Arundel, to his and Harry's great sorrow for Arundel had been for so long one of their carousing companions.

  Now, cold, sick, their numbers drastically reduced, they seemed to be plunging ever deeper into enemy territory, shadowed on the far bank by a French force under Marshal Boucicault. One of Harry's spies had swum the river to watch the French pass by and reported back to the King to be rewarded in Harry's generous manner by the gift of a gold ring. The order came to bivouack for the night at a small village and the men scattered for what shelter they could find.

  Humfrey rode in with the vanguard and sent a small detachment further on while he went to the house of the elderly man who seemed to be the village spokesman. He was ordering food and lodging for the King when Elys came hastily to summon him.

  'Sir, there's a small manor just beyond the village and the men are at the gate trying to force it, but there seem to be no soldiers there.'

  'I'll have no unnecessary bloodshed,' Humfrey said irritably. He had been about to enjoy a mug of his unwilling host's best wine, and setting it down went out to his horse and remounted. 'I gave no orders for anything but bivouacking. Have you any idea who holds this place?'

  'As far as I could see, my lord, a woman who shouted at us from a small window above the gate. She said her husband was with the French army and if we harmed her or hers we'd not see England again.' Elys laughed. 'She has some spirit, I'll grant her that. She used language on us that surprised me.'

  When they reached the place the gate had already been battered down and in the courtyard there was a chaotic scene, old men and boys struggling to fight off the invaders with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on. Several already lay sprawled and bleeding on the ground while chickens and geese and a number of squealing pigs ran in panic among the fighting men.

  'A defenceless woman and a few retainers too old or too young to be at the war,' Humfrey exclaimed. 'A guard at their door would have been sufficient.'

  He shouted an order to the soldiers who were striking out indiscriminately, desperate for any plunder, but in the uproar no one heard him and he made for the steps where the owner of the place stood, an old and rather rusty sword in her hand, a lad of about ten by her side. He too was clutching a knife and as Humfrey urged his horse into the confusion the boy screamed at a soldier already scrambling towards them, 'Go! Go, bastard Englishman! Leave my mother alone.'

  The soldier laughed and as the woman raised her sword he wrenched it from her hand in one easy movement. The boy was sobbing in sheer terror and then to Humfrey's utter astonishment, among his troops he saw Richard Neville. Flushed and beside himself with excitement Neville had a spear in his hand and as the boy flung himself forward, brandishing his knife, Neville threw the spear. It caught the boy full in the stomach. He screamed again but in agony this time and rolled down the steps. His mother gave one anguished shriek and stumbled down to fall on her knees beside him while the soldiers poured over them both and into the house.

  Richard Neville was scrambling up after them, his face suffused with colour, and once inside had already seized a gold cup when he felt an iron hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his master, the large eyes burning with anger.

  'How dared you?' Humfrey roared. 'You damned disobedient pup, you were bidden to find me some fresh linen out of my baggage, not disport yourself with the men.'

  'But you said, you said . . . I wanted a gift for my mother . . . won by my own hands,' his page babbled in terror before the fury in Humfrey's face.

  'Won? Snatched from a defenceless woman and a child! And it seems you have slain the boy; he'll not rise from that wound. Oh, indeed you are a hero!'

  Neville's face was scarlet. 'It is war, isn't it? And they wouldn't let us in.'

  'Fool! Do you think the King wants his name made a byword for acts unworthy of any knight? You'll not get your spurs by such deeds. Now go. And employ yourself polishing my armour, which is all you are fit for at the moment.'

  Sick with mortification, but with a vindictive look on his face, Richard Neville turned and pushed his way down the steps, averting his eyes from the dead boy, the shaft of the spear still protruding from his body, the woman weeping inconsolably. She raised herself and as she screeched vituperations after him he broke into a run. Several soldiers laughed and his humiliation was complete. He never afterwards forgot the incident.

  In the hall Humfrey restored order in a few moments, saw that the boy was carried in and laid decently on a bench, and the spear removed. There was nothing he could say to the woman and he went out to look for Harry, making his way through the village whose peaceful life had been shattered. By good fortune Bores was a place that lived off its vineyards and the cellars were full of wine. Humfrey rode back to the house from which he had been so hastily called.

  There a fire was burning and the frightened owner serving a hasty supper, while the King sat at a table, a map spread out, more intent on that than on the chicken leg he was holding in his hand.

  'Ah, Humfrey,' he looked up with a swift smile, 'help yourself to what you will – there's little choice.'

  'So I see. Do you want to lodge at the manor further out of the village? The place seems well stocked and I for one could do with a better supper, though my men have seen to it that the place stinks of blood.'

  Harry gave him a swift enquiring glance, but Humfrey merely answered, 'A skirmish no more, but the woman's son and a number of her household were slain.'

  'We're well enough here in that case,' Harry said. 'Come and look at this map. We took a prisoner this morning who has given us some valuable information.'

  Humfrey broke off some bread and with that in one hand and a leg of the bird on the end of his knife came to look over the King's shoulder.

  'There,' Harry said, his finger on the river, 'you see how it twists? The French will expect us to follow it, looking for a place to cross, but if we cut across the loop we can be two days march ahead of Boucicault, especially if we set off tomorrow before it is light.'

  'Risky,' Humfrey said. 'We don't know the lie of the land.'

  'But worth it. What do you think of it, Uncle?'

  'A plan with spice to it,' Exeter agreed with the relish of an old campaigner. 'God save us, what's that you're doing? Do we hunt or fight?'

  The Duke of York paused between mouthfuls to look up as Harry fixed a fox's brush into his helm. 'Where did you get that? Don't tell me you've had time for the chase and not told me of it?'

  Harry laughed. 'Not I. One of my squires caught it and brought
me the brush. There, that will show the enemy the King of England's disposition.' He rolled up the map. 'Get what sleep you can, my lords, and be ready to move out at four of the clock. See the captains are informed.'

  'I hope the army will be in a state to march,' Humfrey said casually. 'When I came here, Harry, they were making free of the cellars.'

  His brother got to his feet in swift anger. 'They may fill their bottles, but I'll not have them make bottles of their stomachs. Uncle Thomas, be so good as to see it is stopped at once.'

  Exeter went out while Edward of York settled himself in a corner prepared for sleep. Sir Thomas Erpingham paused at the door to see if the King had any further needs. 'None, old friend,' Harry said. 'Humfrey, there is a passable bed upstairs, will you share it with me?'

  It belonged to the owner of the house, and the feather mattress was soft and warm. As he was drifting off to sleep, Humfrey murmured 'I wonder how it would have fallen out if the Dauphin had accepted your challenge to single combat?'

  He heard Harry laugh in the darkness. 'We'd have been in Rouen now and I wearing my crown in the city of my ancestors. But I never thought he would accept.'

  'Nor I – a fat foolish youth if all we hear is true.'

  He slept deeply until roused by his brother. It was still pitch dark, but by the light of a single candle, Humfrey saw he was half dressed.

  'Hurry,' the King said. 'Master Patrington will say Mass for us in ten minutes.'

  Humfrey rolled sleepily out of bed, John Patrick appeared from nowhere and he was soon dressed in all but his outer armour. Down in the one living room the King's altar had been set up, gold vessels on it, richly wrought candlesticks bearing candles already lit, and Harry's confessor and chaplain, the Carmelite Stephen Patrington, was placing his stole about his neck.