Loyalty

by David Pilling

  For a big, brutal-looking knight at arms, Gauvain was irritatingly perceptive. He also had very good hearing.

  “Every man has a weakness,” the Frenchman said, slapping James on the back with the same over-familiar manner he had exhibited since Paris, “mine is women. I have buried three wives, fathered fourteen children, and next month I am set to marry again, a sweet-faced little girl from Blois. I must be mad, don’t you think?”

  James shrugged him off. In the last few days he had learned more than he could possibly want to about Gauvain’s marital history.

  They rode on for a while, in the sticky and clinging heat, until James spotted the distant silhouette of the Cháteau le Dampierre, its towers rising above the trees of a little wood. Unlike castles in England, which generally had a stern, functional look about them, the cháteau had an almost fairytale appearance, with a tiled roof and pretty blue spires.

  Gauvain’s crude features twisted in a grimace. “I suspect our work is doomed,” he said with a sniff, “Queen Margaret is a hellish proud woman, so they say, and milord Warwick has dealt her too many blows in the past. She will cast his offer into the fire, and send us bootless back to Paris.”

  James privately shared his doubts, but felt obliged to refute them. “Pride is a luxury,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “one she will have to set aside, at least for a time, if she wants to see England and her husband again. Warwick is her only hope, and she his.”

  “A marriage of convenience,” said Gauvaine with another of his face-splitting grins, “the worst kind, in my experience. And I have a great deal of experience.”

  James hurriedly clapped in his spurs before Gauvaine could lavish him with further details.

  The cháteau was smaller than he had imagined, scarcely a fit place for a Queen of England to reside, but he was aware that Margaret’s circumstances were much reduced. Driven out of her adopted land, with few friends save a handful of diehard loyalists who had followed her into exile, she relied on a pension from her father, Duke René of Anjou, to sustain her meagre court. The duke was notoriously parsimonious, and there was apparently little love lost between the tight-fisted old man and his formidable daughter.

  James reined in before the main gate while Gauvaine went forward and announced them to the guards. While he waited, he wondered at what sort of reception they might get.

  He cast his mind back ten years, to a misted September morning outside the town of Market Drayton in Staffordshire. James had waited there – in a drunken haze, as he usually was in those days – for news of the battle being fought at Blore Heath, a couple of miles east of the town. His father and eldest brother had fought in that battle, a disastrous Lancastrian defeat. Bolton senior had died on the field, pulled down and butchered by Yorkist blades, while Richard barely escaped with a whole skin.

  James had glimpsed Queen Margaret in the flesh, inside her carriage on the outskirts of the town. Like him, she was waiting for news of the battle. He recalled her creamy skin and long, pale face, and her delicate fingers playing nervously with a set of rosary beads. Her face had turned an even ghastlier shade when some bloodstained survivors from the battle galloped up with news that her forces were routed.

  Will she remember me? he thought, and gave a wry smile. The Queen of England was scarcely likely to remember some drink-sodden priest.

  He heard a grinding of wheels as the portcullis was winched up. Gauvaine beckoned at his companions to follow him into the inner ward. Jolted out of his memories, James spurred his courser towards the gate.

  The inner ward was spacious and pleasantly laid-out with gardens and fountains. The men-at-arms that had formed James’ escort were directed to the stables, while one of the guards offered to take his courser.

  As he handed over the reins, he was distracted by the sight of three lanky youths sparring on one of the rectangular squares of lawn. All three wore padded jacks and fencing masks, and were armed with wooden swords and little round targes. The tallest of them was fighting against the other two, and displaying more aggression than his opponents. Curses and yelps of pain echoed across the ward as he dealt out stinging blows with his practice sword.

  “They will sport a few bruises tomorrow,” said James as Gauvaine ambled over to watch the fight.

  “All part of learning the knightly arts,” the French replied with a shrug, “that is no fair fight, though.”

  “Two against one rarely is.”

  “I don’t mean that. Those boys have been instructed not to hurt the tall one. Look, they keep backing away. Have at him, for God’s sake!”

  His bull-horn of a voice startled the fighters. As one they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him.

  The taller boy was first to react. He tossed away his sword and wrenched off his mask, revealing a long, almost girlishly pretty face with an aquiline nose and high forehead, and long fair hair plastered to his skin with sweat. His eyes were deep blue and gleamed with fierce vitality as he laughed and spread his arms.

  “Sir Gauvaine!” the boy shouted in the breaking, high-pitched voice of adolescence, “my guards saw you were coming. Don’t you know me?”

  “Indeed I do, sire,” said Gauvaine, with a humility that ill became him. He went down on one knee and bowed his head.

  “Get down, you fool,” Gauvaine ordered James. “Can’t you recognise your future king when you see him?”

  James knelt without further hesitation. He had never seen Prince Edward, only son of Queen Margaret and Henry VI, but the boy’s identity was obvious. No wonder his sparring partners had been reluctant to fight back, or that proud Gauvaine had abased himself in the dust.

  My guards saw you were coming. James’ suspicious mind mulled over the remark. He concluded that Edward had deliberately staged his sparring practice to coincide with their arrival. The boy wanted to impress them with his prowess.

  “Come, sirs, on your feet,” said the prince, waving his companions away, “I don’t like to see loyal men grovelling in front of me. There are others who will grovel before me, soon enough.”

  His voice was high-pitched, over-excited, and far too eager to please. James almost felt sorry him.

  This, then, is Harry the Fifth’s grandson, he thought as he rose and bowed, casting a shrewd eye over the prince. Edward certainly looked the part: tall for his age, handsome and athletic and well-proportioned.

  “Majesty,” said James, “I am James Bolton, a priest of Staffordshire. I come with a message from the Earl of Warwick.”

  “Well met, Master Bolton,” said Edward with a smile.

  His mood changed, and he frowned and placed a finger to his lips. “Staffordshire. A battle was fought there, years ago, between our forces and those of Lord Salisbury, may his soul baste in Hell.”

  “Blore Heath, Majesty,” replied James, “I have good cause to remember it. My father was killed there, fighting for your royal father.”

  Edward’s reaction took him by surprise. The prince’s eyes filled with tears and he moved forward as though he meant to embrace James.

  “I honour him,” said Edward in a choked voice, “and all those who have given their life’s blood in our cause. When I am King, I mean to erect chantries to them all over England. Every day a thousand priests shall sing Te Deum for their souls.”

  James could not think of anything intelligent to say. He nodded mutely as Edward stepped back and clasped Gauvaine’s hand.

  “Come,” said the prince, “my mother is expecting to receive you.”

  Queen Margaret was waiting for them in the hall on the first floor of the keep. James could not help but compare the impoverished state of the Chateau de Dampierre to the magnificence of Warwick Castle. Small though it was, the castle seemed half-empty, and the voices of Gauvaine and the captain of the guard echoed hollowly through the shadowy, deserted corridors.

  The few servants they passed were a shabby, down-at-heel set, completely lacking in the finery and elegant manners one might expec
t from those employed in a royal household. James noticed whitewash peeling from the walls, and the dusty and threadbare condition of the tapestries and friezes that decorated the hall. It was at least cool inside, for which he was thankful after sweltering his guts out on the road from Paris.

  His attention was drawn to the figure of the Queen. She stood in the centre of the hall, with her back to a hooded fireplace.

  Four youngish men stood near her, all of them warriors judging by their powerful builds and hard faces. Their once-rich clothing was patched and grubby, and they regarded the newcomers with haughty suspicion. James reckoned them to be diehard Lancastrians, gentlemen who had lost everything accompanied the Queen into exile rather than submit to Yorkist rule.

  “Gentlemen,” said Margaret, offering her hand. Gauvaine strode quickly towards her, bowed and kissed her fingers, and was greeted with a warm smile.

  James quickly drank her in as he followed Gauvaine’s example. Margaret was shorter than he remembered, and wore an ankle-length green dress with gold brocade at the wrists and throat. She wore no headdress, her hair being bound up in a plain wimple, and no jewellery save a single plain gold band on the index finger of her left hand.

  In short, she looked rather more like the wife of an impoverished merchant than a queen. Taken aback by her plain appearance, James was shocked by how she had aged. The natural creamy tone of her skin was sustained by a clumsy application of rouge and cheap cosmetics. Cracks and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes could be discerned under the layers of paint.

  Only Margaret’s large, expressive eyes flashed with the same fire that he remembered from his brief glimpse of her at Blore Heath. They bored into his now, as he kissed her hand and gazed up at her.

  As James had expected, her eyes were full of fierce intelligence, but no recognition. “I don’t know you, sir,” she said with a little frown, “I have no memory of you from the French court.”

  “Nor would you, Majesty,” he replied humbly, “I am an Englishman but lately come to France with the Earl of Warwick. My name is James Bolton.”

  “He hails from Staffordshire,” put in Prince Edward, “his father died fighting for us at Blore Heath.”

  Margaret withdrew her hand. “Indeed?” she said coldly, “then why are you in the service of a traitor, Master Bolton? Does your father’s soul not cry out for shame?”

  James nervously moistened his lips. “Much has changed, Majesty,” he said, “my lord of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence were recently obliged to quit England, pursued by the false king, Edward of March.”

  “This much I know. Warwick has been playing pirate since in the Channel, a fit occupation for one who was never more than a titled thief. A shame he and his former protégé did not die on each other’s blades.”

  Her tone was stern, and full of venomous hatred. James could almost taste the tension in the air as he ploughed on.

  “Majesty, my lord recently sailed into Honfleur and sent a message to King Louis. The earl has cast off his former allegiance, and is ready to reinstate the House of Lancaster on the throne of England.”

  Margaret said nothing. A vein started to pulse in the side of her thin neck, and a faint red blush became visible under her shield of paint. Prince Edward looked equally dumbstruck. One or two of the hard-faced men in the background uttered curses.

  Gauvaine chose this moment to intervene. “King Louis was initially surprised by milord Warwick’s change in allegiance,” he said smoothly, “but has come to appreciate the value of it. His Majesty has agreed to lend money and troops to assist Warwick in this venture. All that remains is Your Majesty’s assent to it.”

  “It is a serious offer,” he added, “think of it, Majesty! If King Louis helps to place your husband back on his rightful throne, he can insist on an Anglo-French alliance against Burgundy. England and France will no longer be at daggers drawn, but friends and allies.”

  Margaret didn’t seem to hear him. She turned away, open-mouthed, her long fingers twisting together. James watched her with some alarm, fearing that she might collapse.

  “What of Warwick’s creature, the Duke of Clarence?” her son asked sharply, “it is said Warwick promised to make him King once Edward of March was disposed of. Has he been cast aside?”

  “I cannot speak for Clarence,” said James, “only that my lord regards the claim of King Henry VI and his successors as paramount.”

  He had grown accustomed to telling lies for the sake of policy, otherwise this one might have stuck in his throat. In truth he knew full well that Clarence’s usefulness to Warwick lay purely in his royal blood. King Louis had no interest in placing Clarence on the throne, and now the duke was married to Warwick’s daughter he could be safely sidelined. To say as much would be going beyond his remit.

  “So the Yorkist pigs have turned on each other,” said Edward after a moment’s thought. “Therein is our opportunity.”

  All eyes turned to Margaret. Her eyes were closed, and she was rigid and trembling, as though bracing herself against some terrible internal pain.

  James exchanged worried glances with Gauvaine. He knew something of the sad and dangerous life that the Queen had led, her brief moments of victory among an endless chain of defeats and disappointment. For Warwick’s plan to succeed, it was necessary for her to be the brave and indomitable woman of ten years ago. This Margaret looked tired and worn-out, battered to breaking point by the cruel tides of fate.

  “Am I understand,” she said in a low voice, “that the man who did more than anyone to ruin me, to murder my supporters, to tear down my husband, to steal his crown and bar our son from his inheritance, now wishes to be my friend?”

  Edward moved to comfort her, but she held out a hand to ward him off.She opened her eyes and looked hard at her visitors.

  “The truth, Majesty,” said Gauvaine with disarming frankness, “is that milord the Earl of Warwick will do anything to claw back the power he has lost in England. If that means he must throw aside his friends and form a pact with his most deadly foe, then so be it. The world is littered with such men.”

  Margaret’s mouth twisted. “The world is desolation,” she said with feeling, “or bad comedy.”

  She looked at Edward, as though drawing strength from him. “What does Louis the Prudent propose, then?”

  “That you should move your court to Angers,” said Gauvaine, “and set up anew there, all at his expense. His Majesty will visit you, to discuss milord Warwick’s plans for invading England and freeing your husband from captivity.”

  “And I must meet Warwick. I must talk with him, accept his apologies and sincere regrets, and refrain from slashing the cur’s throat, as he deserves.”

  James decided to risk some frank speaking of his own. “No-one can force Your Majesty to do anything,” he said, “but you face a stark choice. Remain here in Anjou and live off charity for the rest of your days, or go to Angers.”

  This had the effect he wanted. Prince Edward smiled, and Margaret looked at James with what he interpreted as a new respect.

  “Warwick didn’t send a diplomat, then,” she said drily, “what a subtle man he is. He sent a plain-speaking man to deal with the old hag, eh?”

  James was about to mouth some pretty denial, but she laughed and waved him into silence. The Queen’s laughter, like the rest of her, was fragile and unpredictable.

  “No need to flatter, Master Bolton,” she said, “I doubt you have any skill at it, and I had my fill of flattery in England. Let us deal plainly with each other.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “I must have time to consider. We shall speak of this again tomorrow. For tonight, you shall enjoy the best of our poor hospitality.”

  Chapter 5

  England, August 1470

  The king was on the march again. No sooner had he crushed the rebellion of Lord Welles, and sent the treacherous Clarence and Warwick fleeing from England, than news arrived in London of fresh conspiracies being hatched in Yorkshire. Once again
Edward found himself obliged to summon his loyal knights and retainers, clamber aboard a war-horse and heave his swelling bulk north.

  Edward was beginning to understand why his ancient predecessor, the Conqueror, had ordered a general massacre in the north of England. The place was an endless breeding-ground for rebellion. No matter how many defeats they suffered, how many of their fighting men were slaughtered on bloody battlefields from Towton to Empingham, the people never ceased to plot against Edward’s regime.

  Such is the fate of a usurper, Edward thought gloomily. It seemed his destiny was to kill and be king, until his fortune ran out or his strength failed.

  It was a dry summer, and the air was like an oven as the royal army trudged along the Great North Road towards York. Banners drooped in the stifling heat, and the long, winding columns of billmen and archers choked on the dust kicked up by the horses of the vanguard.

  Edward himself was acutely uncomfortable in his heavy plate armour. He had put off his helmet with its circlet of gold, which now dangled from his saddle-bow, and took regular draughts of watered wine from a skin. The remorseless sun beat down on his steel shell, making him feel like a lobster being slowly boiled inside a pot.

  “How far to Ripon?” he gasped, running mailed fingers through his long, sweat-soaked hair.

  The rebel host was said to be assembled at Ripon, led by two disaffected northern gentlemen, Lord Fitzhugh and Richard Salkard. Two more heads to be struck off and impaled on spikes above the gates of York.

  “About six miles,” replied his youngest brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Much to Edward’s chagrin, the heat didn’t seem to affect Gloucester, whose slight figure rode at ease in the saddle.

  Unlike Edward, Gloucester was plainly enjoying himself. Keen to prove himself as a soldier, he had leaped at the opportunity to accompany the king on campaign, and was fired with zeal at the prospect of a pitched battle.