That thought turned his mind to his extraordinary son, returned with Warwick two nights before. York had thought he might burst with pride when he saw the sheer size of the man Edward had become. None of his other sons had achieved such a height or breadth. The youngest of them was still cruelly twisted, though at seven, young Richard had at last learned to clench his lips tight over his shrieks. The contrast between the sons of York had never been more obvious and York had praised Edward at a feast, catching sight for an instant of Richard watching them both. He’d waved the scowling little boy away then, with such great matters to discuss. The house of York had never been stronger, to have such a warrior as the heir – at the moment when the peril was greatest.
York reached for a jug of Malmsey wine he had placed carefully on the stone battlements. He was drunk, he knew, yet for just one night it felt right to blur the edges of his worries, to let them drift away while he stood in the cold and sank cup after cup. It seemed the garrison of Calais had brought many good things home. Warwick too seemed to have hardened in his time away. Salisbury’s son had spent his time well, raiding foreign shipping in the Channel, ships from Spain and Lübeck, or any other nation whose captains dared to risk their vessels along that coast. In York’s estimation, Warwick had returned a leader, rather than simply one who had inherited a title through his marriage. No one who saw him now would ever question his right to command again.
‘And against us, mere swans and antelopes,’ York muttered. Warwick’s two thousand had glimpsed marching columns as they’d approached the lands around Ludlow. They had not been challenged, not with so many men, but the truth was that the country was in arms and York had no idea of the numbers that would stand against him. He thanked God he and Salisbury had gathered and trained so many in the years of peace. Once Salisbury arrived, they would have seven thousand soldiers, enough to stand against a host of the ‘Gallants’, made fools on romantic ideals and the queen’s favour.
As his drunkenness became sour, York wondered if Margaret would tie her husband to a horse and parade him while the men cheered. It grated that Kenilworth was a fortress, closed to spies and messengers alike. For all York knew, the king had recovered from his illness to the point where Henry could ride with banners. The thought was like a cold knife sliding between his ribs and he drank again, finishing the jug and feeling his senses swim. He could trust Salisbury and Warwick. He could trust his son and the Calais men he had brought to Ludlow. The rest of the country would see only that the king was threatened once again. The name of traitor would be hissed in York’s ears wherever he went, unless he fulfilled their darkest mutterings and took the throne himself.
He nodded, turning back to the north and peering out, lit only by the spinning stars above.
‘Come, old friend,’ he muttered, raising his cup to Salisbury and slurring. ‘Come to me and let me do what I should have done before. I will not turn aside this time.’
The king was weeping, tears making him blind as Margaret and two servants wrestled him into his armour. Margaret was already flushed and embarrassed by her husband’s reaction, though the men with her had tended Henry for years, at Windsor and Kenilworth. She was rougher than they were, tugging Henry’s limbs back and forth and pressing hinges closed one by one.
‘Leave us now,’ she said, brushing irritably at an errant lock of hair that curled across her face.
The two servants scurried out without a backwards glance, leaving the king and queen alone. Henry’s armour creaked as he sat back on his bed. Margaret knelt before him, raising her hand to touch his face as he blinked and stifled sobs like a child.
‘There will be no blood, Henry, I have told you,’ she said. In her frustration, she had to fight the urge to slap him. ‘You must ride out with your Gallants. You must be seen in your armour and with your banners flying. Somerset and Buckingham will command, with Earl Percy and Baron Egremont. I will be there at your side the entire time.’
‘I cannot,’ Henry mumbled, shaking his head. ‘You do not know what you ask.’
‘I ask only that you act like a king of England!’ Margaret snapped.
The words stung her husband, but the drowning was strongly upon him and his face fell slack, the spark of awareness sinking to blankness in his eyes. Margaret lost patience entirely then, shaking her husband hard so that his head lolled.
‘Be sharp, Henry! I have moved the entire country to bring you to this place. I have spun England around Kenilworth, like a stone on a string. I have bribed and promised and threatened dangerous men, but you must have the will in the end, or you will lose it all. And what will your son’s life be worth then? Not a candle in a gale, Henry. Not even that. Stand for me, now. Rise up and stand straight in your armour. Take up your sword.’
Henry did not move from the spot where he sat slumped, staring into nothingness. Margaret rose to her feet, looking down on him in anger and despair. Eight thousand men had pledged themselves to fight for the king. Six thousand of them were soldiers brought in by his lords. They had all come, from Somerset and Northumberland to a dozen minor lords like John Clifford, made baron after his father’s death at St Albans. Yet a quarter of the king’s army were raw recruits from the towns and villages, no more experienced than her own Gallants. Simply by being present, Margaret knew Henry would give iron to their backbones, would make them stand when the cannons fired and arrows flew and their bowels dissolved in terror. She had clung to the hope that putting Henry in his armour would enliven him, no matter what stage of his illness had him in its grip. The king’s doctors had talked of rousing potions hidden in brandy that would excite the blood and drag him back from wherever he hid. She had hoped not to use them, but perhaps there was no other choice.
‘Oh, lie there, then. Let your tears rust your armour,’ she said, her fury lending spite to her voice. ‘I will be away for three days, four at the most. When I return, your doctors will dose you with fire in your veins. They’ll make you stand! Can you hear me, Henry? If you spend the rest of your life in this weak drowse, you will ride against York this month. For me and for your son, if not for yourself.’
Her husband looked up at her, his eyes wide and innocent.
‘I will, if you ask it of me, Margaret. As you say, if I must, I will.’
She felt her fury mount until she was certain she would slap his face. Without another word, she swept out of the rooms. The stewards of the king’s bedchamber waited in a huddle further down the hallway and Margaret strode up to them.
‘I will be absent for a few days now. Excepting your own selves, no one will speak to the king while I am away. Not a single soul, until I return. Have doctor Hatclyf ready to purge and dose him next Tuesday morning. He will rise then, to join his lords and the King’s Gallants. Is that understood?’
The men bowed and mumbled their assent, sensing her anger and cowed by it. Margaret went past them, heading down to the stables where three horses were saddled and waiting. Her own Gallants would fight soon, the first army sworn to her that she had ever known. All else would wait while she witnessed that battle and saw the first triumph of Lancaster, so long kindled from the embers. It was Friday evening and she would race to see them destroy Salisbury at Blore Heath. Not even Derry Brewer knew she would be there, riding with just two swordsmen to keep her safe from brigands on the road.
21
Blore Heath was vast, open land, mile upon mile of scrub gorse and brown grasses. Salisbury’s three thousand had made good time over the previous six days, cutting across country and using the main roads only when they matched the direct line south-west to Ludlow Castle. With foot soldiers and cavalry alone, he could have covered the distance in four hard marches, but his carts had slowed his progress to a crawl on boggy ground. He’d suspected from the beginning that this would be no raid or single clash of arms. For all Salisbury knew, he would not see peace and home again for a year or more – so he moved at the pace of his slowest cart teams, carrying food and equipment, tools, spare moun
ts and small forges, everything he might need for a campaign. The alternative was to rush into battle unprepared, or to depend on York for aid and materiel. Each morning, Salisbury fretted at the lost time, then made the decision once again and pushed on with the carts bringing up the rear. Half the previous day had been lost wrestling the heavy wagons down and across a stream bed, though hundreds of men had made the work light.
At least the heath was dry land, with brown rolling hills stretching away south. Salisbury had good maps with him. He had chosen the shortest path to Ludlow and pressed on at the best speed they could make. When one of his forward scouts came galloping back in, his marching ranks were already halfway across the heathland, scattering sheep and heading towards a brook with no bridges marked. Salisbury’s thoughts lay ahead to crossing that obstacle and he looked up with a frown as the rider reined in. Two more were racing closer and he felt his pulse quicken.
‘Armed men lie ahead, my lord. I saw pikes and flags across a dip in the land.’
‘How many?’ Salisbury replied, staring out as if he could see through the folds and hills of the heath ahead.
‘I could not see, my lord, though it was a great number. I caught sight of them and returned with the news.’
Both turned to the next man riding in. He was panting as he touched his forelock.
‘How many?’ Salisbury snapped again. The third rider was coming at full gallop and the news was already spreading through the marching ranks.
‘Twice or three times the men here, my lord.’
The second scout pointed as he spoke.
‘They are hidden by that hill and the line of gorse and trees you can see there.’
Salisbury called a halt then, his order passed from captain to captain until the entire mass of men stood still on the heath grasses, all too conscious of the lack of cover all around. The third scout confirmed the numbers and Salisbury swore to himself. He had hoped they were wrong, that such a host could not have been brought together by those standing against him.
‘Very well. Go out again and examine the land between us. Find me a crossing place over that brook.’ Salisbury turned to the other scouts. ‘You two – get as close as you can, but if they give chase, stay out of range. I need your eyes to watch them. Go!’
The three riders raced off once again and Salisbury was alone to fret and worry. Without the scouts, he would have walked right into an ambush large enough to see him killed. He wanted to withdraw against such numbers, but he clenched his jaw at the thought, knowing he could not. Unless he reached York and supported him, the king’s armies would besiege and destroy his closest ally. It would not be long then before they came to Middleham with their Writs of Attainder. Salisbury gripped the high point of his nose, between his eyes, screwing his face up around the fingers. His son Warwick would have reached Ludlow by then and all Salisbury’s choices vanished on the breeze. No matter the odds, he had to fight. He muttered a prayer under his breath, one that was little more than a blasphemy, then called his captains to attend him.
Sixty men rode to the earl’s position in the vanguard, their faces drawn and serious. The news had already spread and Salisbury saw some of the common soldiers reaching down to touch the ground. He frowned at the superstitions of those who would tell soil to be ready for their blood.
‘Have the carts brought up to our right flank,’ he ordered, speaking with deliberate confidence. ‘We have seen the trap in time.’ As he spoke, he recalled his son’s wedding party and the Percy army that had sought to destroy him then. On that day, he had won by withdrawal, by making them fail against him. Some of the tension left him. He did not need to crush the army he faced. He had only to survive the clash and go around them. His carts could be abandoned and he knew he could maintain a fighting retreat to Ludlow, no more than two days to the south. If he sent his scouts ahead, York might even march reinforcements out to meet him. There would be a way through, if he could just find the right moment to disengage and push on.
The carts came rumbling up from the rear, forty-two heavy wagons loaded down with arms and armour, food and horseshoes, everything he had thought he might need. Their best use then was as a blockade to protect his flank, but Salisbury knew that he could not dig in. He had to reach Ludlow. He had to go on. Yet he saw his men brighten as the solid barrier of carts took shape and he nodded briskly to himself. He had run the Scots ragged on the northern marches for years. Salisbury had fought in dozens of actions in his life, enough to know numbers were not the only key to victory. Discipline and tactics mattered just as much. Perhaps it was time to see what sort of men stood for the king.
‘Archers to the fore!’ he bellowed across his men. ‘Slow advance into range. We will show these farmers how a real army fights.’
The men cheered dutifully, though as they lurched into step once again, he still saw some of them dipping down across the ranks, touching the dry grasses and crossing themselves with muttered prayers. The teams of carthorses were whipped on with them, guarding their right flank with wood, wheels and iron. His archers strung their bows and readied quivers on their hips, running their hands through the white goose feathers and swinging their free arms to loosen the muscles. Salisbury untied his shield from where it lay across the haunches of his mount, tugging it on to his armoured forearm and taking some satisfaction from the weight. He did not have to win, he reminded himself. He had to get past. After that, the bastards could have his carts and chase him all the way to Ludlow, for all he cared. The brook grew as he approached it, until he was forced to call a halt once more, swearing softly. The river had eaten away at the ground for God knew how long, so that there was a four-foot drop from the banks to the rushing waters, then another steep bank to climb. It would have been a difficult obstacle if they’d been alone on the heath. Salisbury looked up then, seeing a cloud of arrows launch like sparrows from behind the trees and hill ahead.
Audley was satisfied. The force he faced was barely a third the size of his own. Better still, he had chosen the best spot for miles to defend. Even to reach his position, Salisbury would have to cross the brook, climb a steep hill and do it all while shafts rained down on his forces. Audley watched as arrows rose on both sides, seeming to float at first and then accelerate as they dove and struck. Most fell short and the few that reached his position on the crest of the hill vanished into gorse bushes without a single cry of pain sounding from his men. The corners of Audley’s mouth raised in grim appreciation. There was one last card to play and he had found the right place to lay it down.
‘Cannon teams. Fire on the enemy!’ Audley shouted over his shoulder. He turned back immediately to watch, flinching despite himself as cracking roars sounded on his left and right. He could see twin black blurs flicker towards Salisbury’s forces, vanishing into the ranks of armoured men beyond the brook. One appeared to have no effect at all while the other must have skipped and bounced, throwing men down so that its flight could be seen in the sudden collapse of bodies. Audley whistled to himself, wishing only that he had a dozen of the heavy weapons instead of two.
‘Again! Fire again!’ he roared. ‘Aim for the centre!’ The teams rushed around like ants on a carcass and he was glaring at them as minutes passed and they were still not ready.
Salisbury had not been idle when he saw how exposed he was to their range. The entire middle section of Salisbury’s forces was pulling back, leaving dead men behind in ones and twos to show where roundshot or arrows had struck.
Audley showed his teeth as the cannons fired once again, crashing across the still air. That second shot was less lucky, with one ball disappearing into the ground and the other killing a single man as he turned to run. Salisbury’s forces jerked into greater speed even so, beginning to panic. Audley jerked round as the Queen’s Gallants roared wildly, driven to instant frenzy by the sight of their enemies running before them.
‘Hold steady there!’ Audley bawled at them. ‘Captains! Hold them back!’ To his fury, the captains could do no
thing. Some of his men were already running over the edge of the crest, racing down the other side towards the brook. Audley cursed, his voice growing hoarse as he bellowed for the rest to stay in their position.
Thousands of men poured past him, their faces wild with battle-lust and excitement.
‘God damn it!’ Audley said. ‘Bring my horse, quickly!’ He was buffeted by the mob his men had become, throwing away all the advantages of the land in their desire to kill a fleeing enemy. Audley was just about alight with rage at the stupidity and fecklessness of the Gallants, but there was no help for it. He had nine thousand to the enemy’s three and he could not let them shriek themselves into a rabble against well-trained soldiers. As he mounted, he saw the first of them plunging into the river, leaping down from the banks and crashing through the running water in great surges of spray.
Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Page 24
