“Christ save us, Edmund, I thought we had an understanding. What do you want?” demanded a furious Edward. He blocked the doorway, stark naked and with an erection that was hard to ignore and which vastly increased Edmund’s amusement and sense that justice had been well-served.
Rubbing his mouth in a futile effort to hide his grin, almost choking on his laughter, he managed to splutter, “There’s trouble. You’d better come to the hall.”
Edward studied him briefly, and then his eyes swung back to the bed where his companion was nothing but a mound under the covers. Clearly torn between pleasure and duty, he looked back at Edmund. “If this is a joke...!”
“It isn’t, I swear. Though I wish I’d thought of it.” His grin faded. “Andrew Trollope and the Calais men are gone. It’s thought they’ve defected to the enemy.”
“Oh, what a surprise!” Edward turned back into the room. “All right, I’ll come. Give me a moment.”
Elizabeth risked a peek over the covers, saw that they were alone and emerged fully, cloaked in her glorious hair. “What’s wrong?”
Her lover snatched at the clothes they had stripped from each other earlier and scattered about the chamber in delirious abandon. He wasn’t long in finding what he needed.
“I have to go, love, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay here and try not to fall asleep.”
“You must wake me if I do,” she murmured throatily. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her throat and breasts flaming with the marks of his attention. “I think I should rather enjoy that.”
Dressed in shirt and hose, Edward jammed his feet into soft boots, grabbed his cloak and leant over her intending to give her a quick kiss. Her arms went around his neck, and the kiss lingered. The suddenness of his withdrawal from her still pained him, and it was all he could do not to shuck his clothes again and climb back into bed. With a heartfelt groan, he eased himself from her clinging embrace and turned to go just as Edmund thrust his head through the door.
“Come on, Edward. Hurry up!”
Elizabeth dived beneath the covers but not quickly enough. Edmund’s fair brows shot up in unfeigned astonishment as he looked from the bed to his brother and back again.
“Have you completely taken leave of your senses?” he enquired as he followed Edward down the passage toward the hall. “Or do you just enjoy courting disaster? Elizabeth Lucy – one of our mother’s attendants! Christ on the Cross, Edward! I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if Mother ever finds out you’ve been tupping one of the women of her household.”
“Enough of your sermons, my lord bishop,” Edward said, draping the cloak around his shoulders against the chill. “Is this certain about Trollope?”
“Yes. I never trusted that ruffian from the day he arrived. Our cousin of Warwick would hear no word against the man.”
The hall was crowded and in an uproar. Torches blazed in the wall brackets, and the cavernous room rang with the clamour of many voices, the clash of arms and gear as the men within armed themselves, cursed the tardiness of their squires and shouted each other down in heated argument. Warwick was snarling at his father now, while Salisbury, just as furious, waved a fist in his son’s face. The Duchess had arrived too and stood on the dais talking urgently while the Duke listened, nodding his head unhappily. The thick golden rope of her braid was half unravelled, and she had one hand pressed to her throat. Her sons had never seen their mother in such disarray, and they exchanged eloquent glances before going to join their parents on the dais.
The Duke confirmed that Andrew Trollope had betrayed them. They had trusted him and included him in their councils; he knew their defences, their weaknesses, all their plans, and he had taken their best troops, men they had counted on, over to Lancaster. It was a disaster.
A war council was held on the dais, brief but heated, and a course of action decided on. They would abandon the castle, disperse the men and flee for their lives. The Duchess and her three younger children would remain behind to surrender Ludlow and intercede on behalf of the town. When her two elder sons heard this, they objected as strenuously as they knew how, but it was she who silenced them with an uncharacteristic sharpness that betrayed her own anxiety.
“There is no reason to worry about our safety. It is unimaginable that Henry, of all people, would allow any harm to come to us. But there is a very real concern that the people of Ludlow might be held accountable for the deeds of their lords. I must remain to speak for them.”
It was the only solution. Yet for two youths still in the difficult transition from boyhood to manhood, the very idea of fleeing from their enemies rankled. Leaving their mother, three small siblings and the entire town of Ludlow vulnerable to reprisals was unthinkable, a stain on their honour. They had no better plan, however, except to fight whatever the cost, and that the adults would not consider.
“This is our only choice,” said the Duke. “It’s retreat, not surrender.”
Edward had the feeling that he was secretly relieved to be able to slip away without having to fight the King or submit to their enemies.
The two Earls returned to their chamber to pack. Elizabeth was gone, leaving behind only a trace of her perfume and a tumbled bed. It was possible that she made it back to her own chamber without exciting undue attention, for although the entire castle was aroused everyone was distracted and preoccupied. Edward hoped so; he didn’t want her in disgrace when he wouldn’t be here to defend her. He was grateful to her for her discretion, as well as furtively relieved that she had spared him what he was sure would have been a difficult parting.
Edmund kicked a stool out of his way and, when it remained stubbornly intact, kicked it again and again until he had reduced it to a satisfying pile of kindling. Edward was more controlled. Ludlow had been his home for as long as he could remember. He wasn’t one to hold himself aloof, so he knew many of the townspeople by name; their children had been his playmates, their daughters his first lovers. He dreaded to think what might happen to them. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but knowing there would be worse to come, he was able to calmly supervise his squire in packing the things he would require in saddlebags.
“I don’t like it either,” he muttered, “but since there’s no alternative, why don’t you stop making war on the furniture and start getting your things together.”
He looked with longing at his new harness, where it hung on its cruciform stand, bright and shining, like newly minted coins, perfectly fitted to his tall frame. Could he take it? No, there would be no waggons to slow them down; they must travel light and ride fast, his father had said. Edmund came up beside him and put an arm around his shoulders, understanding immediately and sympathising.
“It will still be here when we get back,” he said. Of course, it would. And of course, they would be back.
“I feel like a coward,” Edmund said quietly, standing in the doorway of the chamber they had shared for as long as they could remember and were about to abandon.
So did Edward, but he wasn’t going to say the distasteful word out loud.
The barest glimmer of light was showing in the eastern sky as they led their horses through the Mortimer Tower, across Dinham Bridge and onto the road leading west into Wales. Rags muffled the horses’ hooves just in case any enemy patrols were ranging that far, and they were all wrapped in dark cloaks, as much for concealment as warmth. Dawn gleamed on the horizon like a bright sword rending the fabric of night. The darkness receded slowly and the stars faded out one by one.
Shortly after, they came to the crossroad where they would separate. The Duke had elected to go to Ireland, where he still held the post of lieutenant and was remembered with affection by all contentious parties for his fair dealings. He would continue west, while the rest turned south.
“Father, may I go with my Lord of Warwick?” Edward asked before his father could determine his immediate future.
“All right with you?” York asked Warwick.
“I’ll be happy to hav
e him along,” said Warwick, and Edward rewarded him with a smile of purest delight.
He hated the idea of going to Ireland and couldn’t understand why Edmund was so comfortable under the watchful eye of their parent. He was sure his brother was in for a dull time of it, while in Calais, where Warwick was bound, there would be adventures, new experiences, a glorious freedom, all the things he craved. Just thinking about what might await him in a freewheeling port like Calais restored his spirits. It was one of the differences between them that Edward would always go his own carefree way, while Edmund was bound by duty and obligation, resenting the constraints put on him but unwilling to break free.
“You know what they say about Ireland, don’t you?” Edward remarked to coax a smile out of his brother. “It’s a semi-civilized, semi-Christian backwater, a land of woolly mists and turgid bogs where faeries run free.” He managed a delicate shudder. “There are others who don’t speak so well of the place.”
“At least it’s not surrounded on three sides by Frenchies,” Edmund retorted, and they laughed.
“It does my heart good to know that you two can find something to laugh about in all this,” their father said sardonically, which effectively quenched their amusement. The steel-gray eyes searched the face of his heir with obvious discontent. He sighed. “Pay heed to my lord of Warwick, Edward.”
“Naturally, my Lord.” Edward’s face was neutral, but his tone clearly conveyed his scorn at so unnecessary an injunction and the implied insult to his intelligence.
After a moment, the Duke gave an ambiguous grunt, grasped Edward by the shoulder and turned to his younger son. “Come along, Edmund. Take leave of your brother quickly and let’s be off. If we ride hard, we can be safe from pursuit in a few hours.”
With that, he moved away, and the two brothers looked at one another again, and the space between them flowed with thoughts understood if not expressed. Edward’s smile was mocking as he said, “I wish our lord father wasn’t so given to sentimental farewells. Such parental solicitude is embarrassing.”
Edmund laughed, but it was no more than a force of habit. Without further word, they grasped one another’s wrists and then gathered their reins and rode off in different directions without looking back.
Though no one could have guessed it, Edward was worried. Shortly after his arrival in Ludlow, Warwick learned that the Captaincy of Calais had been taken from him and awarded to his rival, Somerset. He had no intention of relinquishing it. To his friends and supporters, he said, ‘The word is not the deed. If they think Calais can be taken from me by some writ from a pasty-faced clerk in the warrens of Westminster, they’re even stupider than I thought! Let Somerset try a landing. He’ll get a greeting he won’t expect. Calais is mine!’
It was easier to believe that before Trollope’s treachery.
“Cousin, how do you intend to reach Calais, having left your ships on the Kentish coast?” Edward asked him. “Surely even you wouldn’t attempt a journey across England in our present circumstances.”
But Warwick wouldn’t have been Warwick if he had entertained any doubts that, despite small difficulties like the defection of the men of the garrison and the absence of a ship to take him where he wanted to go, events would always arrange themselves in a way most favourable to him.
“That, I should think, is the least of our worries. You forget, Edward, that the men of the ports are loyal to me. We shall make for the south coast, obtain a ship by some means and sail off to safety. Simple.”
“Given what happened at Ludlow are you certain that Calais will remain loyal?”
Warwick didn’t like to be reminded of his failures, and he scowled as he replied, “You’ve a good point, I suppose. But as sure as Christ died for our sins, we’re not safe in England. I’m still Captain of Calais, and all the poor tortured souls in hell will pity the man who tries to take it from me! We’re going to need a haven on the continent, and what better place than Calais where we won’t be dependant on the good will and charity of some foreign prince, and from where we can cause endless trouble for our enemies.”
“Who’s in charge in your absence?”
“Our uncle, Lord Fauconberg, and I don’t put my faith in him because he’s kin – we both know that means nothing – but because, frankly, he is devoted to me.”
The early part of the journey was perhaps the most perilous, for Leominster, where the royal army camped, lay south of Ludlow and it was in this direction that they travelled. They rested for a great part of the day in the forest of Clun and then took the road again at dusk. Well south of Leominster and still north of Hereford, they turned eastward, thus avoiding a crossing of the River Wye. Utilising back roads and cart tracks, travelling by night and resting in thick woods, they raced south. They were seen, undoubtedly, but perhaps it was another sign of their enemies’ incompetence, or merely a further example of the luck that seemed to follow Warwick, that they saw no sign of pursuit.
Chapter 31
October 1459 – Exmoor, Devon
When he left Tiverton on his way home after a business trip, John Dyneham had no idea that a man’s life could change so dramatically in the space of a few hours. As he rode across Exmoor, he had no presentiment, no inkling that he was stepping from a comfortably prosaic and predictable life, into a future that was adventurous, glorious, turbulent and sometimes perilous. He was twenty, a country gentleman of moderate means with three thriving estates in Devon and some shipping interests; a man of common sense rather than exceptional learning, prosperous enough, thanks largely to his late father, to be a man of some standing in his community. The pinnacle of his ambition was to one day represent his shire in parliament, as his father had briefly done before his recent death, but that day was still a long way off. He was betrothed to Alice Waverley, who came with a nice piece of land that abutted his estate of Nutwell, and he intended to wed her as soon as she turned sixteen, which would be in eight months. He expected to have several children and a satisfactory, if unexciting, marriage. He believed his future to be secure and predictable, and if he possessed an adventurous spirit, he certainly wasn’t aware of it.
And it all might have come to pass as expected, but for a chance encounter on Exmoor.
A dreary rain was falling, and visibility was poor. He and his companion, the steward of his household, were approaching Stoke Cannon on a lonely stretch of road when they unexpectedly came upon a party of about a dozen horsemen up ahead of them. John was surprised but not immediately alarmed. This area of Devon was a rolling, windswept upland of gorse and heather and isolated copses, home to a breed of small, stocky pony. Only a couple of isolated hamlets straddled the road. One seldom saw such a large group of strangers on its barren reaches – especially strangers such as these. They had come to a halt under some trees. As John approached, he could see nothing of the men themselves, for they were all cloaked and hooded. But even in the dim light it was obvious that they were well dressed, rode fine horses, and he caught a glimmer of silver on the heels of one as he spun his horse in a tight circle. Something prickled along his spine – not a pleasant sensation.
John glanced at Gilbert, who shrugged nervously under his sodden cloak. It was too late to avoid an encounter, however, for one of the horsemen had seen them and came cantering back along the track. He reined his mount to a halt directly in front of them and broadside, as if to deliberately block their path. John made a note of the fine harness and the silver spurs of knighthood at his heels. The knight’s smile attempted friendliness, but it was, in fact, wary. He was courteous enough, though, explaining that his party had gotten lost and asking if this was the Exe running beside them. Were there any bridges before Exeter? Odd, thought John. Did they wish to avoid Exeter? He knew the area very well and had no trouble finding his way. In different circumstances, he would have offered to guide them, but in this case, he was reluctant to do so. There was something unnerving about the encounter and the men themselves. The less he knew about them, the better, h
e decided. After answering the knight’s questions briefly, John rode round him with Gilbert following. Then a curious thing happened. The knight came to John’s side and rode so close that John had no choice but to veer away to the left, which took him further away from the men under the trees. As soon as he realised what was happening, curiosity got the better of him. He looked their way and happened to catch sight of an unmistakable profile.
“My lord of Warwick?” he murmured in simple amazement.
In spite of being haggard, travel-stained and unshaven, his face shaded by a dripping hood and lacking any of the accoutrements of nobility, once met the Earl of Warwick wasn’t easily forgotten. Impulsively, John turned his mount’s head and rode up to him. He was aware of a frozen stillness. They all stood under the branches of a tree, and every few seconds a heavy raindrop fell from a leaf or bough high above to splatter on the top of John’s beaver hat with a rather loud noise. He looked around at the others and saw that they were all slumped in the saddle like men too exhausted to hold themselves upright. An old man at Warwick’s side was gray-faced with fatigue, and there was a young one with the unmistakable stamp of nobility on his fair face. Two others had their hands on sword hilts, and the first knight was directly behind him. They were all watching him like wolves the lone sheep.
“And who might you be?” Warwick said, a voice so cold John felt another chill run along his spine.
The thought came suddenly and alarmingly: Mother of God, they’re fugitives! And as such, they wouldn’t want anyone to betray their presence in the neighbourhood. Out of a rainy morn near Stoke Cannon, the gravest danger of John Dyneham’s young life had suddenly come swooping. He stood as close to death as he ever had since rheumatic fever had almost carried him off in his fifth year.
He swallowed the lump of panic that lodged in his throat. He knew of the mustering at Ludlow, but word of its aftermath had yet to reach so far south. However, he was astute enough to figure out that things must not have gone well for the Duke of York’s side. These lords had come a long way west, obviously to escape pursuit. Without pausing to consider the wisdom of helping men fleeing the King’s justice, he seized an opportunity that he knew would come but once in his life: to earn the gratitude of a great lord.
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