One of them removed the silver halves, revealing a perfect image of Edward enthroned and bearing the royal sceptre. It had been cast for him the night before by the Tower mint’s silver master and he could only marvel at it as the Chaff-wax cleaned the seal and dropped it into a bucket of freezing water to aid the process.
‘Again, then,’ Edward said, looking around the ring of white cloth.
‘I will take that finished one, Your Highness, with your permission,’ came Warwick’s voice behind him.
Edward turned with a smile, gesturing to the Chaff-wax to hand it over.
‘It is a strange thing to see my face in wax,’ Edward said. ‘I can still hardly believe it. We have moved so fast.’
‘And we still move,’ Warwick replied. ‘I have eighty horsemen waiting, ready to carry your call as far as we can. Norfolk is out gathering knights, proclaiming a new king and the house of York on the throne.’
Edward nodded, moving with the seal-bearers and upturning the silver mould once again. He stared at the image left in the wax, shaking his head in wonder.
‘Good. That is enough for now I think, gentlemen. You may continue without me, until they are all sealed. My lord Warwick will bear them away then.’
The four officials bowed deeply, clutching their jugs and silver pieces to their chests. Edward pushed one table aside to leave the ring, moving the massive piece of oak with just one hand.
‘The night before last,’ he said, ‘I was declared king. The result seems to be that everyone else has a thousand things to do, while I sit here and play with wax. Will you deny it?’
Warwick chuckled, though he ceased to make the sound when Edward’s eyes became dangerous. Away from the torches and the tables, the new king seemed to grow taller.
‘Should you concern yourself with nails and billhooks and salt fish?’ Warwick said. ‘The men are coming in, but we need weapons, food – a host of items to put them in the field. In your name, I have borrowed four thousand pounds today, with more to come from the Holy Houses.’
Edward whistled softly to himself, then shrugged.
‘Will even that be enough? I want the best archers, of course, but I must have townsmen as well. Those who cannot use a bow will need good pollaxes, bills, shields, mail, daggers.’
‘We have the Royal Mint,’ Warwick said. ‘I thought to borrow what we needed, but if it comes to it and consequences mean nothing, we could take the bars.’
Edward held up a hand, already tired of the details.
‘Not till the end, for that. I won’t be a thief. Do whatever else you have to do, my lord Warwick. Put my name to the life’s savings of all the Jews in London if you wish. I would be on the road into the north today if I had the men I needed. Yet you say I must delay and delay. You hold us back.’
Warwick closed his eyes in anger and Edward frowned, understanding before he could reply.
‘Ah, yes. I must wait – because my father rushed north with yours. Those two friends were too determined to bring their enemies down. Yes, I understand.’
For just an instant, Edward raised his head, struggling against the grief that made breath shudder in his chest. Unable to trust his voice, he clapped Warwick on the shoulder, staggering him.
‘These Writs of Array are the sparks, Edward,’ Warwick said softly. ‘We send them out to begin a great conflagration across the land – a bonfire on every hill, calling them in. Thirty-two counties, from the south coast to the River Trent.’
‘No further?’
‘Beyond Lincolnshire? I have not troubled. The queen has her North Lords. All her support is there. They have already chosen their side.’
Edward shook his head, thinking.
‘Send one more Writ then, just one, to Northumberland, like all the others going out. Send it to the sheriffs there, as if the Percy family had not chosen to defend a mindless, weakling king and his French wife.’
‘The Percy family will never join us,’ Warwick said.
‘No, but they will have had their warning. They began this war. I will win it on the field, I swear it on the Holy Cross. Let them know I am coming and that I fear them not.’ Edward put his hands behind his back, one fist holding the other as he leaned down to Warwick’s height. ‘You have one week more to assemble an army. After that, I will ride. On my own if I have to. But better with thirty or forty thousand, eh? Yes. Better we have enough men to finish the she-wolf once and for all. I will have those heads back, Warwick, from the Micklegate of York. I will take them down – and yes, I will find others to put in their place.’
Margaret rode a grey mare, with her son trotting beside her on a sleepy old warhorse. The vast numbers supporting King Henry had spread around the city of York in all directions, taking billets in every local town and village. The official camp was just to the south, where the London road crossed the village of Tadcaster. That was their gathering place, where men walked or rode across ploughed fields to join the house of Lancaster in war. Clerks and scribes checked names for pay and handed out pollaxes and savage billhooks to any man without one.
As Margaret guided her son through a landscape of banners and tents, of archers and axemen, hundreds knelt until they had passed. Six knights trotted armoured geldings alongside mother and son. The banners streaming out behind them showed three royal lions, as well as Henry’s antelope and the red rose of Lancaster. Margaret wanted the symbols to be seen, wanted to show them all.
Every one of her lords was busy with a hundred tasks, or so it seemed. It would have made sense for her husband to ride with her, to show himself to the ranks assembling. His father would certainly have done that, cantering into every camp and speaking to all the captains and the men he would ask to stand and die for him. That was what they said. Instead, her husband had retreated into his own peaceful world of prayer and contemplation, far from the dangers she faced on his behalf. On a good day, Henry would rouse himself enough to discuss some thorny moral issue with the Bishop of Bath and Wells. At times, Henry could even fluster that poor old man with his learning. Yet he could not ride out to oversee an army setting tents and sharpening weapons, ready to put their lives to hazard in his name.
In King Henry’s place, Margaret showed them her son, Edward. At seven years old, he was a tiny figure to be perched on the wide back of a warhorse. Yet he rode proudly, with his spine straight and a cool gaze looking out over the camps.
‘How many there are, Mother!’ he called to her, showing a pride that squeezed her heart.
Somerset and Derry Brewer both said he had the blood of his grandfather in him, without a doubt, the warrior king and victor of Agincourt. Margaret still watched the boy for his father’s weakness, but there was no sign. She crossed herself and muttered a prayer to the Virgin Mary, as a mother who would understand her fears only too well.
‘They have come to stand against traitors, Edward – to punish the evil men in London.’
‘The ones who closed the gates?’ he asked, pursing his mouth in recollection.
‘Yes, those very men. They will come with great fierceness and anger, but we have here such a host as I have never seen – perhaps the largest army ever to march.’
She reined in with gentle pressure, halting her mare and turning to her son.
‘Learn the banners, Edward. These men will stand with you when you are grown. If you ask them. When you are king, by God’s Grace.’
Her son beamed at the idea and, for just a moment, she laughed with unaffected pleasure, reaching out to his head and rubbing his blond hair. Edward scowled at that and pushed her hand away.
‘Not in front of my lords, Mother,’ he growled at her, red-faced.
Margaret was caught between outrage and delight at his spirit, with one hand held near her mouth, where she had pulled it back.
‘Very well, Edward,’ she said, a little sadly.
‘I will ask them to follow me, when I am grown,’ he went on, trying to ease the sudden stiffness in the way she held herself. ‘They mus
t not see me as a boy.’
‘But you are a boy. And my delight, my sweet jelly, whom I could squeeze to death whenever I see you frown. I could bite those ears of yours, Édouard.’ He was in the middle of mock-groaning, half delighted at her quicksilver moods, until he heard the French pronunciation of his name and shook his head.
‘Mama, that is not my name. I am Edward of Westminster, Prince of Wales. I will be king of England – and of France. But I am an English boy, with the dust of green hills … and ale in my veins.’
Margaret looked coldly at him in turn.
‘I hear your voice, Edward, but I hear the words of Derry Brewer. Is that not so?’
Her son blushed furiously, glancing away. She saw his expression change and looked in the same direction. Margaret was not sure if she was relieved or annoyed to see Derry Brewer’s spavined old mount jogging along towards them, all hooves and elbows. The man was a rotten horseman.
‘Master Brewer! My son was just telling me how the dust of English hills runs in his veins.’
Derry beamed at the Prince of Wales, pleased.
‘And so they do, my lady. With the water of English streams in his blood as well. He will make us all proud, I do not doubt …’ His voice trailed away as he realized Margaret was not smiling along with the idea. Derry shrugged rather than argue. ‘His father is the king, my lady. His grandfather was the greatest battle king we have ever known, just about. Some would say Edward the Third, but no, for those of us who know true value, Henry of Agincourt was the man to follow.’
‘I see. And there is no French blood in my son, then?’ Margaret said.
Derry scratched a bit of mud off his horse’s ear before replying.
‘My lady, I have seen enough children born to know the mother is more than just a vessel, or a garden for a seed, as some say. I have seen mothers with red hair and every child they bear has the same ginger locks. The womb must scorch the child within, I can’t deny it. Yet Edward here is a prince of England. God willing, he will be king one day. He has grown on English meat and learned English manners. He has drunk ale and water and wine from grapes in this soil. There are some who see the value in that. There are some who might say that makes him blessed above all other tribes, my lady. And some who don’t, of course. Mainly the French.’
He grinned at her and Margaret tutted aloud, looking away to the vast camp.
‘You did not seek me out to discuss being English, Master Brewer.’
He dipped his head, pleased that she would let the subject rest.
‘Lads, would you take the prince here to see the cannon? I heard Captain Howard was test-firing two wheeled guns today, with balls as big as my hand. Not Captain Howard …’
He stopped himself, aware that Margaret was already irritated with him. She waved a hand to give permission and her son rode away with two of the banner-bearers, proclaiming his name and blood with the quartered English lions and French fleurs-de-lis.
Derry watched him go with affection on his flushed face.
‘He is a fine lad, my lady. You should not fear for him. I only wish he had a dozen brothers and sisters to secure your line.’
It was Margaret’s turn to blush and she changed the subject.
‘What news, Master Brewer?’
‘I did not want your son to hear, my lady. But you should know. Edward of York has declared himself king in London. I had a man half kill himself to bring the news to us.’
Margaret turned fully to face him, her mouth opening in shock.
‘What do you mean, Derry? How can he call himself … My husband is the king!’
Derry winced, but he forced himself on.
‘His father was made the official heir to the throne, my lady. In time, we would have put that right, but it seems the son has taken that and bargained it into something greater. He has … well, it seems he has a fair gathering of support, my lady. London made a choice when they kept the gates shut. They must support him now – and that means gold and men and authority, come from Westminster Hall, the Abbey – the thrones and sceptres, the Royal Mint.’
‘But … Derry, he is not the king. He is a traitor and a usurper, a mere boy!’
‘My man said he is a giant, my lady, who now wears a crown and summons soldiers and levies of men in the king’s name.’
He saw that the blood had drained from Margaret’s face as she sat with her back slumping. His heart went out to her, fearing it was one blow too many.
‘The only good news, my lady, is that all pretence is thrown aside now. There will be no more lies. Many men who might have stood by and waited will come to you. The army is already the largest I have ever seen. It will grow further, as the men of the north come to preserve the true king from traitors.’
‘And we will crush him then?’ Margaret said faintly.
Derry nodded, reaching out to her and letting his hand fall away without touching.
‘We are not far from forty thousand men, my lady, with a fine solid core of warriors and archers.’
‘I have seen armies torn apart, Master Brewer,’ Margaret said faintly. ‘There is nothing certain once the horns are blown.’
Derry swallowed, growing irritated with her. He had a dozen important things to do and comforting Margaret was not one of them. At the same time, he was aware that he felt some trace of arousal. There was just something about a beautiful woman in tears that perked up his spirits. He considered what it might feel like to press his mouth hard on hers, and then shook himself, forcing his mind back on to a safer path.
‘My lady, I must be about my business. There cannot be two kings. What Edward has done is lock us together until there is only one.’
15
Fourteen days after he had declared himself king in Westminster Hall, Edward rode north with a vast host. The Ides of March, the midpoint of the month, was three days behind. He thought of Caesars as he walked his horse along the London road, away from the city. The winter was still strong on the land and there would be no foraging in the path Margaret had taken with her northerners and Scots. Edward and his captains passed burned manors by the dozen, with villagers running into woods as soon as they sighted his marching ranks.
For such an army, there was no question of using the paved road, more was the pity. Edward had suffered through meetings with Warwick and Fauconberg, who explained that staying on the road would create a line days long, so that any vanguard met by the queen’s army would be cut off from support. Rather than become too long a thread, they had to stay in wide formation. The men marched in ranks a mile across, in three squares. The advancing lines clambered through forests and over hills and through streams, slogging through thick clay and mud so glutinous it seemed alive. The city of York was two hundred miles into the cold north and Edward was resigned to losing nine or ten days to the march. His men were well supplied at least, thanks to the favour and wealth of London. Merchant ships had brought the food they needed up the Thames, while the city’s moneylenders seemed to have understood that their futures lay with his.
Edward rode proudly in the front ranks of the centre, surrounded by banners bearing a sun in flames, his father’s falcon and the white rose of York. He had given command of the right wing to the Duke of Norfolk, as the most senior lord present. Warwick and Fauconberg had been given the left, and if the two Nevilles saw any insult in that, they had not shown it. In truth, Edward had not meant it as a criticism of the forces who had been overrun and routed at St Albans, though they made up the bulk of that square. If half the reports coming into the south were correct, the queen’s army was at least the equal of his own. Scouts and merchants were given to exaggeration, but Edward had the sense that he could not delay. Battles could be lost but wars still won. Every day on the road was another for the queen and her lackwit husband to bring in more soldiers and more lords.
Having his lords out in command of their own vast squares also meant that Edward did not have to speak to them, which suited him well enough. He was not even
in sight of their portions of his army and he spent his days with the Welsh captains and archers, once again feeling as if he were better suited to being a clan chief than a king. Yet his nineteenth birthday was still a month away and he revelled in his strength and surety of purpose. The army around him was a mass of coloured surcoats over armour and mail, a thousand different family crests woven or painted on to cloth and shields. Beyond the professional soldiers in the employ of knights and barons, the common men had come to his side, sick of the failures of Lancaster and driven by memories such as Lord Scales using wildfire on a London crowd, all in the name of King Henry. They carried their pollaxes and billhooks like bristles on a hog, beech handles resting on their shoulders or used as a staff – all overmounted by an iron head. The pollaxes were part axe, part spike and part hammer, while the billhooks tended to have a heavier blade. In unskilled hands, they were still solid cutting tools. In the grip of those who knew them well, they could pierce armour and allow a common man to stand against a knight in plate.
Edward had been astonished at how many of the surly lads marching along with him seemed to nurse a personal grudge against the house of Lancaster. Half of his Kentish and Sussex contingent used the name of Jack Cade as a blessing – and would tell anyone prepared to listen how the queen had broken an old promise of amnesty. They had given their oaths to York out of anger and betrayal. In return, Edward could only bless every mistake Margaret had made.
The cold tightened its grip as they pushed north. At first it was a relief to men who had grown exhausted plunging through sucking mud. They shivered and blew on numb hands and the hard earth was unforgiving when they slipped and fell, yet they made a better pace on the frost. The carts of food and equipment kept up with the marching men on the London road and Edward read tallies of boots and injuries in the evenings, when his servants set up a tent and a meal. He spent hours before sleep overseeing weapons work with his knights. At first, the common soldiers had clustered around the flickering torch square to watch the giant who led them. Something in their stares had irritated Edward and he’d sent them away to their own sword practice. Every night after that had been filled with the shouts of captains and the clash of metal.
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