Salisbury’s voice had been getting louder, drawing the attention of those nearby. He was wise enough to know that an argument between the commanders wasn’t good for morale, but he was beyond caring. Far, far more important was persuading York not to lead the men out into what he was certain would be an ambush. He wasn’t alone; others joined their voices to his, including Sir David Hall, one of the Duke’s oldest and wisest councillors, but York remained obdurate. Salisbury was still arguing and pleading when the fully armed Duke strode from the hall. Then, in spite of his misgivings, he allowed his squires to arm him and followed.
Hardly had he joined the fighting than the rest of the Lancastrian army poured out of the trees on either side of the open ground, sweeping around and behind the Yorkists, and cutting off all possibility of retreat to the castle.
Chapter 50
January 1461 – Shrewsbury
Edward had been at Ludlow when he sent off couriers commanding the marcher barons to meet him. Word came from his father that he had reached Sandal and had six thousand men with him. The enemy occupied nearby Pontefract Castle with some fifteen thousand. Since Advent was upon them, a truce had been agreed upon to last until Epiphany. Because he was young and liked to have a good time, and he had grown impatient with the logistics of raising troops – an undesirable trait that must be ruthlessly repressed, at some later date – Edward chose to spend the Christmas season in Shrewsbury.
The town sat on gently rising ground within a tight loop of the River Severn. Its natural defensive position made it a strategic stronghold and Edward I had used it as a military base during his war with the Welsh princes. Two bridges spanned the river: the one to the east was called the English, and the one to the west was called the Welsh. It was the closest town of any size to Ludlow and Edward was already acquainted with its environs and its prominent citizens.
With him were Lord Audley, Will Hastings, Richard and Thomas Herbert and Sir Humphrey Stafford. John Tuchet, Lord Audley, a Cheshire man, was the son of the man who had been killed in the skirmish against Salisbury at Blore Heath and had fallen into the hands of the Calais earls when he had attempted to carry relief to Somerset in Guines and been blown off course. Fortunately for him, they were tender hands. Exposure to the blandishments of the rebel earls soon saw him converted into an ardent Yorkist and he had proved his loyalty when he fought for them at the battle of Northampton. His close friend Humphrey Stafford of Southwick had shared that voyage and that conversion. Neither of these were marchermen, but they had thrown in their lot with Edward and accompanied him from London.
Edward made sure that Shrewsbury obeyed Warwick’s injunctions to all the towns to repair its fortifications, guard its gates and make frequent proclamation that none should aid the enemy lords or obey any order coming from them. With an army massed nearby, the townsfolk observed these orders to the letter. Edward passed an enjoyable Christmas being entertained by the local dignitaries or roistering with his friends in one of the town’s many taverns.
It was bitterly cold, and the ground was hard as iron. On New Year’s Eve it began to snow again. At first, it fell lightly but increased as the day wore on, heavier flakes, falling thickly, swirling and spinning like a dancer wrapped in gauzy veils. All the dunghills and open sewers and refuse-laden alleys were concealed under a blanket of icy purity that made the town look storybook pretty at least for a little while. As the snow deepened, roofs groaned under the unaccustomed weight, and people were trapped in their houses by drifts piled against their doors. Those who had to brave the streets had difficulty ploughing through it. Water barrels froze solid. Vagrants died of exposure. A prominent vintner lost an eye when he looked up just as an icicle was dislodged from the eave above. Several people suffered from frostbite or crippling chilblains. But the children were made happy by a rare recreational opportunity. They created slides on slopes, made snow caves in the deep drifts and lobbed snowballs at passers-by from places of concealment. The more adventurous strapped animal bones to their feet and went careening around on frozen ponds. Only once in every generation did Mother Nature send such a winter. To adults, the snow was at best a nuisance, at worst a menace. Most preferred to huddle in comfort and warmth by their hearths and await a change in the weather. To go outside was to risk broken bones and frostbite. Travel ground to a halt. Shops and tradesmen did little business. Stallholders didn’t bother to open.
After two days of relentless snow the young men were becoming bored and restless, none more so than the active Edward. They were staying in the comfortable and commodious guesthouse of the Benedictine Monastery of St. Peter and Paul on the east side of town. Outside yard-high drifts covered the ground, churned up where men and beasts had trampled it. They exercised their high-spirited horses by walking them around in monotonous circles and then giving them a rub down before returning them to the stables. In normal circumstances they might have diverted themselves by organising archery contests, wrestling matches, horse or foot races or other demonstrations of martial skill; but the wind-driven snow made such sports unappealing and instead they sought the comparative warmth of the guesthouse where they indolently played dice or knucklebone or nine-man morris. The monks had been kind enough to loan them a chessboard.
That night Edward was edgy; a knot of apprehension had formed in his belly, a sense that he had been in Shrewsbury long enough, and he couldn’t seem to shake it off. The worst of it was that he couldn’t return to Ludlow until the snow had melted. All those hazardous ruts and potholes carved into the roads during gentler seasons were frozen hard and now lay under the snow waiting to snap a horse’s slender leg. He was a commander separated from his army. He berated himself for being a fool. What if there was a crisis? He wasn’t usually afflicted by such moods. He tried to put it down to the cursed snow dampening his spirits but sensed it was more than that. It had something to do with Edmund – some illogical and inchoate idea that nothing could go wrong with Edmund if he were there
Humphrey Stafford, tall and lean, a haughty and supercilious young man, but with a deliciously caustic wit that excused his many failings in Edward’s eyes, said: “I have an idea. Why don’t we go and drink the Red Lion dry, tumble a couple of whores apiece and face tomorrow with the grandpapa of all hangovers?”
“I have a vague recollection that we’ve done that already,” murmured Hastings, who had managed to transfer his services from the father to the easy-going son. His wit and unfailing good humour, not to mention a penchant for salacious gossip, made him a boon companion. As Edward got to know him better, he was surprised to discover also a shrewd and insightful student of human nature.
The others laughed, except for Lord Audley who had no sense of humour. He was the only married man among them and so tediously faithful to his wife that he had not joined in their degenerate adventures. Frowning across the rapidly cooling coals of the brazier, he said, “You’re mad to even think of going out in weather like this. You can’t take the horses, which means you’ll be ploughing through snow up to your arses!”
“We could do it if the need was urgent,” said Stafford, and looked round at them all.
“By the time we’ve waded through all that snow, we may be of no further use to womankind. But I’m willing to risk it,” said Will Hastings.
“Speak for yourself.” Stafford jeered. He brought his hands together with a thump. “Shall we be off?”
“If you should join the monks for worship, don’t forget to pray for absent sinners,” Edward said to Audley as he swung his cloak about his shoulders.
The six young men emerged from the relative warmth of the guesthouse into the teeth of a snow-laden wind. It was impossible to keep hoods up or cloaks closed, and some were tempted to turn back, but Stafford was in the lead urging them on. Richard Herbert lost his cap and made no effort to retrieve it. Within moments it had disappeared into the void of white that enveloped them. Hastings volunteered the information that in all his years he had never known a winter like this one
– which cheered no one up.
Having crossed the English bridge, they entered deserted St. Michael’s Street. The wind dropped a little, but the snow fell relentlessly. So little traffic had there been on the main thoroughfares that walking through the drifts was exhausting. They struggled through to St. Alkmund’s square where markets were held Wednesdays and Fridays and where the boisterous and convivial Red Lion was located.
Though all other businesses might complain that custom had dwindled to a trickle, taverns did a roaring trade in all seasons, in all weathers and no matter what calamities might overtake the kingdom. The Red Lion was no exception. As the seven young men entered on a gust of frigid air, they were greeted by a babble of voices: men arguing and shouting, women shrieking with laughter and, to add to the tumult, four men in the corner were roaring out the words of a bawdy song. The smell of roasting mutton almost succeeded in overwhelming the fetid stench of stale ale fumes. The common room was crowded, and although some paid no attention to the newcomers, many others shouted greetings, for they were not unknown in the taverns of Shrewsbury.
“Welcome back, my lord and sirs!” The host beamed at them from across the room. Elbowing his way through the crowd with scant consideration for the sensibilities of lesser patrons, he bowed before them.
“We’ll need a private room,” Stafford said, “a hearty supper, a hogshead or two of your soporific swill and” – he paused to make a pretence of counting heads – “six delectable whores.”
While palming a gold coin with one hand, the host snapped his fingers in the air. “I’m grateful that your lordships have occasion to remember the hospitality of my humble house. Rose and Angel will conduct you to a room and ah… attend to the gratification of your lordships’ immediate needs.”
In answer to his summons, two wenches emerged from the throng. Richard Herbert seized the one who called herself Rose. She had black hair and a perfect pearly complexion, but her mouth was artificially shaped into a moue without regard for the natural lip line, and her eyes were cold and hard. The other, a voluptuous honey-blond, not yet sixteen but well seasoned in the arts of Eros, tucked her arm possessively into Edward’s.
“For shame, my lord,” she murmured in a voice made deliberately husky. “It’s been three days! I despaired of ever seeing you again. I suffered the torments of the damned thinking I’d failed to please you.”
They went up the stairs side by side, with her breast pressing against his arm. Edward entered into the game amiably. “Your rebuke is well deserved, sweetheart. I’m an unmitigated rogue for causing you such distress. But I’ll make amends. If you’re not convinced of my undying devotion by the end of the evening, I’ll give you an extra coin for your treasure chest.” A promise that turned the rapacious whore into a giggling, simpering ninny.
A servant had preceded them up the stairs, and soon the small room was warmed by a roaring fire and filled with the subdued light of half a dozen tallow candles. Cloaks and caps were discarded, points and laces loosened, and the whores lost no time in earning their first coins by stripping to the waist.
A large and rather handsome bed with a feather mattress dominated one end of the room. Claiming privilege of rank, Edward was the first to utilise its dubious comforts. There were moth-eaten drapes for privacy, but the young knights considered it maidenly to close them and so they remained open throughout the evening. While Edward tumbled Angel in the shadowed interior of the canopied bed, the others emptied a pitcher of wine, started on a second and told ribald stories to Rose whose shrieks of laughter might have been heard by the monks of St. Peter and Paul.
Finished, Edward rolled onto his back and pillowed his head on his forearm. He felt sated, at least for the moment, as content and replete as a baby at the breast. Angel nestled at his side, flicking her honey-blond hair across the darker hair of his chest. The sheets stank of old sex, and he wondered how often they were laundered. Not that it mattered much. He was a young and healthy male animal, not overly fastidious about such niceties as long as his need was satisfied. Hayloft or scented bed, open field or shadowed niche, standing up or lying down, with harlot or lady, matron or maiden, it was all the same to him. It was a blessing his mother was not privy to his confessions. She had some idea of the nature of his sins, but no inkling of the frequency.
Despite his mother’s best efforts to instil some moral rectitude in her eldest son, he knew himself a sinful man with an overactive libido that unless satisfied regularly caused him extreme discomfort. He had long since acknowledged that women were his weakness and where they were concerned he was blithely indiscriminate. He adored them in all their marvellous, fascinating diversity. More out of habit than conviction, he confessed regularly, received – and sometimes completed – his penances, and felt free to sin again. It was very simple. God had made him as he was and if God had wanted him any different it would have been an easy matter for such an Omnipotent Being to put into his composition that little bolt that would have made him as monkish as Henry, or leave out that little nut that made him so prone to sins of the flesh. He had tested this theory on his confessor and after the inevitable cries of ‘Blasphemy! Blasphemy!’ had subsided and the poor fellow was able to think rationally and speak coherently again, he pointed out that such a concept defeated the purpose of free will – which was to allow man the capacity to sin along with the choice to suppress his base nature and thereby earn redemption. Oh, Free Will! And tell me, Father, where in the bible may I read about Free Will? Blasphemy!
It was not, as his mother believed, that he lacked piety, only that he saw things rather differently than others. The Turks had overrun Constantinople, that jewel of the east, seven years earlier. Jerusalem was still in the hands of the infidel, and the plague destroyed lives indiscriminately. Surely Almighty God had weightier matters to concern Himself with than the carnal sins of Edward Plantagenet, unrepentant Earl of March.
Unhappily – or happily, rather – he was now so steeped in the sins of the bedchamber that he had no desire – let alone the ‘Free Will’ – to suppress his base nature and was content to leave the salvation of his soul in the hands of his worthy confessor – poor fellow!
“What are you thinking about?” Angel murmured, a question that he had observed women were prone to asking after sex as if giving them the freedom of his body automatically meant they must have access to his deepest thoughts.
“God and my confessor.”
The girl giggled. “Truly, what are you thinking about?”
“You, sweetheart. What else?” That answer seemed to satisfy her better, for she giggled again and writhed against him.
Aware that the creaking of the old bed frame had given way to the murmur of voices, Will Hastings called: “My lord, if you’re done –”
“Done? I’ve barely begun,” Edward grumbled. But he got out of bed, scooped up his discarded clothing and allowed Hastings to take his place.
Shortly before supper was brought up from the kitchen, two more whores arrived, summoned from the nearest brothel, and from then on the bed was never empty.
The wine was consumed rapidly from pitchers that were refilled before they were drained. Voices grew louder as the men argued about trivia and the women shrieked with laughter at every sally. Tom and Richard Herbert almost came to blows about which of them was the better dancer. Nothing would satisfy but that they must prove themselves by dancing with the whores – a difficult accomplishment with eleven people and a smattering of furniture in the room.
Throughout the evening, the host’s wife had been entering the room to replenish the wine, clear away the supper dishes and ensure the young knights had everything they needed, while good-naturedly resisting their invitations to join the party. So no one paid any attention when the door opened again. They were all so engrossed in the Herbert brothers’ attempts to out-dance each other. It was Will Hastings who first glanced round to see Black Will Herbert’s father-in-law, Sir Walter Devereaux, standing in the doorway. Hastings
blinked, not trusting his eyes because Devereaux had been left at Ludlow and had no business appearing in this unexpected fashion, like a ghost, hat and cloak covered in snow. He stood with one hand still on the latch and the other on the doorjamb, as if in need of support. His eyes were on the dancers, and his rugged face was wind-whipped.
“My lord?” he croaked.
It was as if a horrible apparition had entered the room. The dancing stopped, laughter died, smiles collapsed, conversations terminated abruptly. Edward, who was occupying the bed again, came slowly upright, dislodging his partner from her comfortable position across his chest.
“You women – get out,” Devereaux said quietly.
“What?” Rose squealed. “But we”
Stafford cut her short with a stinging slap to her naked buttocks. “You heard him. Get out.”
Before she could protest further, Tom Herbert grabbed a gown from the floor, bundled it into her arms and shoved her bodily out of the door. The rest didn’t wait for similar treatment but snatched up their discarded clothes and fled. Stafford pressed a purse into the hand of the last before she followed the others. When they had all gone, Devereaux turned to the door, slowly closed it and stood staring at it for several moments.
When he turned back to the room, he looked directly at Edward. His face was grimmer than ever. “You’d best get dressed, my lord,” he said, making a commendable effort to keep his voice even. “There’s a man below with news from the north. He came to Ludlow looking for you and…”
It’s bad then, thought Edward, reaching for his clothes.
“Shall I bring him up?”
“Yes.”
Devereaux bolted from the room.
“What can have happened?” Richard Herbert murmured as he righted an overturned stool.
“There was a truce until Epiphany,” Edward said. But he hadn’t liked the look on Devereaux’s face. Devereaux knew what had happened and it was truly awful. He was getting dressed calmly and unhurriedly. Suddenly he felt stone cold sober.
This Sun of York Page 44
