Margaret found her cause was alive in Yeovil, then in Evercreech and Westholme. In each small hamlet or village, a few stout men would down tools and kiss their wives and children goodbye. They saw the banners of Lancaster and they took off their caps in her presence. Margaret was bright-eyed with tears at the sight of a row of curly-headed men all standing to take an oath from one of Somerset’s serjeants. They said their names slowly together and blushed to have it witnessed by a queen. They put aside thought of any judgement on her, as a woman and a fine lady, and a French lady at that. Margaret was extraordinarily exotic to men who expected to die within three miles of where they were born, like the hundred generations before them. They knew the land well enough, every tree and field and custom and boundary. They went to Mass and they baptized their sons and daughters and they had never thought too hard on the doings of London and the king there, until she’d come and asked them to.
It did not hurt her cause that her own son looked so fine on a destrier. Prince Edward might have been dwarfed on such a beast, but his legs were long and he was both lithe and strong as any ploughboy. In one place, he had wrestled their lads and gone tumbling into a pond. They’d all frozen then, unsure if they would be punished until Prince Edward had broken the surface and cheerfully held the other lad under until he’d gone limp. That had been one more to walk with them, when they’d slapped his face and brought him back to the world. That particular Devon lad had joined Edward’s squires and was learning all he had to do to keep a knight in the field of battle.
Each spring day was spent marching through a countryside alive with flowers and crops, the air growing sweet and thick, with the promise of summer still ahead and everything growing and pressing on.
In Bath, they marvelled at the Roman ruins there and Prince Edward swam in the sulphurous waters, wrinkling his nose and calling out that his mother should come in. Margaret had chosen not to, but the small council had been delighted at the peaceful presence of their own Duke of Somerset, perhaps even more so than Margaret and the prince. Crowds had turned out to welcome them and with them had come the merchants and moneylenders, setting out their stalls. Somerset had secured new loans and food as well as six hundred men, all joining up together. Half of them worked in the same coal mine and the owner was distraught but forced to put a brave face on his loss for the cause. Every one of them mattered, though Margaret feared the army she needed was growing far too slowly. She left the details up to Somerset and the Earl of Devon when he came. John Courtenay owed his title to her husband’s return and he would not give it up meekly. He had brought out eight hundred trained men with him from his estates and towns. They made a fine display in matched tunics and the banners of Devon in yellow and red, complete with drummers and trumpeters. Two hundred more came in with Baron Wenlock, a knight who admitted to sixty years of age. He was by far the oldest of them and given to peering at whoever spoke with one eye squinted shut and the other half obscured by enormous eyebrows. He was white-haired from his long moustache to the curls poking from his shirts. His men though were in rude health and youth and equipped with new mail and billhooks.
For all their gains, they were still little more than three thousand as they reached the outskirts of Bristol. Word had gone ahead and as close as they were to the border of Wales, Margaret should not have been surprised at the response. Yet she was close to tears once again as young girls came out and pressed flowers on her mob of marching men, all standing a little taller as they entered the city gates and marched along the main street.
Prince Edward rode at the head of them, with Wenlock and Devon on either side. Margaret rode alongside Somerset a few ranks behind and if her heart was close to bursting with pride, she supposed it did not matter if others saw. Lancaster had known so many years of pain and loss. Perhaps it was time for the scales to be rebalanced.
As the crowds cheered, she began to imagine years ahead without the shadow of York. She had surely paid enough for any lifetime, whatever sins she had committed. She had confessed to a young priest before setting foot in the French warship that had brought her to England. Ships failed and foundered and she had not wished to drown with her soul still marked by sin. It had been the first time in ten years that she had confessed and she still felt lighter than before in all senses, as if the soft breeze that touched her hair could just lift her up and up, above the Bristol streets. Paris she had loved, but England in the spring was … She closed her eyes. It was perfect.
Her army was the stronger by fifteen hundred men when Margaret was ready to leave Bristol. Perhaps some of them would come to regret it by the time they sobered up, but entire streets had joined the cause, taking a pewter pin of her swan or a badge of Edward’s feathers as Prince of Wales, more usually both as they were treasured and admired. The men had all eaten well and had collected new weapons forged in every smithy, or taken down from walls where their fathers had rested them a generation before. Her lords and captains had been treated respectfully by the burghers and townspeople of Bristol, though Margaret could not help feeling a pang as they waved her goodbye. Alone, she and her son could have crossed to Wales on a fishing boat that very hour. With more than four thousand men kicking stones along the road, they could cross the massive River Severn into Wales only on the toll bridge at Gloucester. The coast of Wales was there to be seen just a few miles off by boat. Yet thirty miles of marching lay ahead.
Margaret wondered again if she would lose some of those who had come with flowers still in their buttonholes and jugs of cider and ale under their arms. Or gain more, she dared to hope, forcing her chin a little higher. England had been a dark place before, but she could not fault the welcome they had given her that year.
After a day of marching along the roads and paths, they made camp by a gentle stream that first evening – and all men would have gone to war if that had been the usual way of things. Lords and knights and common men sat together on dry grass in an orchard with the trees in blossom. The cooks and carters came together to produce a fine meal from the food they’d brought out of Bristol, with fish and flour cakes, leeks and onions from dark, dry bags. It made a decent stew and they were groaning full by the time the sun was settling into colours of gold and red, the sky so clear they could see for miles.
Margaret saw her son looking troubled as he approached her sleeping spot. It did not look like rain would intrude upon them and she had not asked to have an awning rigged, nor a tent. Yet she felt a chill at Edward’s expression.
‘The men say they’ve been seeing riders galloping along the roads all around. Too far off to chase down, so they told me – and I believe them. They say one of them may have worn a doublet in herald colours – of York.’
‘Did you have the archers go out to ambush and capture one?’ Margaret asked softly. Her son wanted to command, but he still had the sense or the humility to ask her advice. She thanked God for it.
‘I sent a dozen or so, but they have not come back. I wasn’t sure if I should worry.’
‘How long ago did you send those men?’ she asked, more urgently. Her son leaned closer.
‘Earlier on, before the meal was served … I don’t know. I didn’t say they had to race back.’
‘And perhaps it is nothing, Edward. Or perhaps there are soldiers and scouts cutting the throats of anyone they find out there in the fields, keeping us blind. I would rather be too cautious than surprised and killed, do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ Edward said. ‘Then we cannot stay here. You know, the men will groan and grumble when I order them up, especially if we are being too cautious, as you say.’
‘I did not say that. I don’t know yet what to make of strange heralds and missing men. Make no apology for what must be done. It’s not dark yet and the crossing at Gloucester is just a few miles off. It would be better for us to rest in Wales, with the river behind us. Your men will see the wisdom of it then, when they sleep without fear of alarms.’
The sky was flaming in violet b
y the time Somerset and Devon and Wenlock’s captains had the camp packed and more than four thousand men back on the road. There was not much grumbling, not with so many experienced soldiers in the ranks alongside the newcomers. Those who might have complained were given short shrift by the rest. Baron Wenlock was a useful man to have in the ranks, if only so the captains could point him out and say, ‘If that old devil can be up and about, so can you, mate.’ Armies did not move at night without a good reason and most of the men still trusted the Lancaster banners that flew in the twilight.
Perhaps another hour passed on a good stone road by the time they sighted the walls of Gloucester, with torches already lit at the great gates. Margaret allowed her mare to ease forward alongside the ranks of sleepy men, heavy-footed by then with the need to rest. They had put some twenty-six miles under their belts that day and she was desperately proud of the loyalty she saw in them.
The gates of Gloucester remained closed. An old man in fine robes appeared above and waved Margaret off in angry disdain, as if she had brought a troupe of beggars to the city. She watched the man go back inside and was left staring up at a line of crackling torches. The river bridge could not be reached from outside the city. She had to be allowed to enter before she could cross and for a time, she could not think what to do.
Wales meant safety, or at least as safe as anywhere could be to her with Edward of York on the throne. They still remembered Lancaster there, she knew, even more than the good people of Bristol. Her son would be in his heartland and they would flock to him.
Her hands trembled on the reins. She had seen too many good men killed, too many disasters. She did not think she could bear even one more. She wanted to scream out her rage at the walls and it was only her son’s gentle arm around her shoulders that held her wildness in.
‘This is York’s doing, or his brother’s, you know that?’ Margaret hissed. ‘Those riders you saw. They have sent word ahead to these weak, traitorous …’ She closed her mouth on the worst oaths and wracked her mind for what Duke Somerset had said before, when they were planning their route. Gloucester’s bridge and then … a ford across the river. She sent a runner to Somerset and he came over in stiff dignity, bowing in the saddle to her.
‘You mentioned a ford to cross the river, my lord.’
‘Close by the ruins at Tewkesbury, Your Highness, yes. The ford itself is Lower Lode. I know the place well. I rode across only last year.’ He paused, tapping his finger to his lips as he thought. He read Margaret’s concern, though he was pleased at her control, even so. Her authority would not stretch so far as to order him into action. The prince might do so in his father’s name, but Somerset was twice his age and unlikely to charge the wrong way just because Edward of Lancaster told him to.
Somerset felt Margaret’s eyes on him in the gloom and knew she had made the same delicate judgement and chosen to remain silent. He was willing to allow her the small victory over him.
‘I wonder, my lady, if you agree with me that it would be better to push the men on to Tewkesbury tonight.’
‘That was my thought, my lord, if it can be reached.’
‘Oh, certainly. The ford is … say eight or ten miles from here. The men will be sore tomorrow but it runs shallow there and there is a fine plain beyond where they can fall down and snore like bullocks.’
Margaret reached out and touched the duke on his arm, pleased to have the support of such a man. She felt relief as the orders went out to groans and grumbling voices. Her army came back to its feet and she saw it had grown truly dark. They would enter Wales under starlight alone, where the waters ran fast and shallow – and not Edward of York nor any of his people could prevent it.
21
In the field, Edward could leave all his devils behind. He had felt it almost at the moment the messengers came in and he’d left Windsor for the west. Margaret was making for Wales and perhaps another man might have felt a touch of fear at hearing that. Edward had experienced something close to joy. He could leave behind his wife’s accusing looks, though he had at least done his duty by her in the bedchamber, cold and unwelcoming as it had been. His rights as a husband had not been particularly easy without drink to ease the way, but he had managed and in truth, some of the dark cloud over him had lifted, at least for a time. He had even taken a moment to wave goodbye to his daughters, though the noise they made put his teeth on edge. A sword aimed at his head could not make Edward flinch, but three shrieking girls would have him quickly in full retreat, closing doors behind him as he went.
Out with his brothers Richard and George of Clarence, with the sun in streams of gold, he felt none of the silent pressure that seemed to squeeze his skull in Windsor or London. He could breathe more deeply in the warm country air, feel more keenly, as if his very senses had sharpened. When he observed a wheeling flock of birds, he would see immediately where a falcon might lunge and bring them down. He lost that sense in the cities and the palaces somehow, so that he stumbled and felt his way like a man made blind or dumb.
Almost all the captains and lords present at Barnet had come back to him. Only Clarence had tried to withdraw. Edward still found the man’s selfishness extraordinary, but then George of Clarence could never have been the son who became king. The death of Warwick, without male heirs, had meant a vast number of estates had fallen into dispute with previous owners. Some would return to the crown. Edward knew he would make them gifts, either whole or sold to pay a bonus to his men, just as he had promised. Other estates would be too strongly mired in law and muddled ownership to take back, but still the vast majority would fall to George of Clarence. It was for that reason his brother had asked to remain in London – and been furiously denied.
Edward took a deep breath and put aside the anger his younger brother could bring about in him. It served no purpose except to make him miserable. He took comfort instead from the presence of Richard, who had overcome his twisted back and made himself a fine knight and a royal duke. Edward was proud of him and looked across at the banners of Gloucester on his right wing with a tight smile. Clarence was a useless, weak bastard, that was just the truth of it. Richard of Gloucester, however, was a brother to make their father proud.
With the losses they had suffered on the field and from wounds after, Edward had brought just five thousand to array in ranks before Windsor. Those who had marched with them before were sorely missed.
Edward knew very well he could be rash. He had married an older woman with children on a wild whim. He had declared himself king of England while Henry VI was still alive and faced his armies in the field. Yet his preference for a sudden leap to action had served him well against Warwick. Reacting without too much preparation had its dangers, but then every day that passed meant Margaret could raise more to her banners.
She could not be allowed to reach Wales, that was the heart of it. There were too many there who remembered the Tudors, who still felt some loyalty for a line Edward had crushed at Mortimer’s Cross. That battle, before even Towton, was like looking back at the memories of another man. He remembered only madness, but Owen Tudor had not survived it.
At least five thousand men could move relatively quickly across the land, Edward thought. They were the victors of Barnet and he had been sure to reward them well for that service. There was no better paid work in England that year, and for three days, Windsor had been awash with more coin than the town had seen in a century. After that, the news had come in and the horns had blown, calling them all back to the war and the fighting. It had been a grim start, but on horse or on foot, they’d settled into the miles.
Edward had hoped at first to cross the path of Margaret and her son while they were still coming in from the coast. By the time his five thousand had covered the first ninety miles in three days, she’d moved on. According to the spies that came back down the road, the city of Bristol had treated the prince like a prodigal son, killing the fatted calf rather than casting them out as traitors. There would have to be some
example made along those walls, Edward decided grimly. Perhaps the mayor’s head, or the sheriff’s. He recalled the walls of Hull being shut against him, just when he had been at his weakest. He hoped they’d heard of his victories since that day. It pleased him to think of those city merchants all quaking at the thought of what he would do.
Edward pushed his brothers and their men on as best he could, but the border with Wales was deep into the west and they were trying to intercept an army without knowing how far it had come. He would have given a purse of gold angels to change his path further to the north, but there was only one western road capable of taking an army. His men simply could not march as many miles over broken ground. One good marsh or an expanse of tussock grass and they’d lose a day and be exhausted. The western road was the only road – and yet Edward stared at the valleys running alongside, wishing he could send the men across.
His fastest riders raced ahead to bring back information and send warnings on to the towns and cities in Margaret’s path. The reward came in the news that Gloucester had closed its gates, a fact which gave his brother Richard particular satisfaction. His column was not far from the city then and perhaps that had influenced its council.
Loyalty was a fickle thing when both Lancaster and York had a claim to the crown, but it did not hurt to have your own named city remain loyal to you. Edward could only laugh and shake his head when Richard enquired if York had always done the same. None of it mattered then. The messengers reported that they had closed the gap in the last great push since morning, having force-marched thirty-six miles already. Margaret’s army lay somewhere ahead in the darkness, with her son and her lords. The men felt Edward’s rising mood and were lifted by it. He looked hawkish as he stared into the gloom. He had broken the Nevilles at Barnet. He would break the heart of Lancaster as well – and he would bring about peace in England, after almost twenty years of war. It was no small thing to contemplate.
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 27
