“Cowards,” the man cried above the crash of blades, “your souls to the devil, can four of you not take down one wounded man?”
Martin knew he should have emerged from his shameful hiding-place and helped his comrade. If nothing else, they could at least die well together,and take a few Yorkists with them.
The sneering, wolfish face of the Gascon pirate, Captain Philippé, appeared in his mind. Such idiotic romantic notions, the captain would say, were the preserve of fools and lunatics.
Martin decided to live. At that moment all his old notions of chivalry and honour, dinned into his head since childhood, atrophied and died.
Afterwards, when the soldier was dead, he heard the Yorkists deep in conversation as they stripped his corpse. He almost fouled himself when he realised that they were bound to spot him at any moment, half-hidden under the hedge, and come to investigate. Just another corpse, they would think. More easy pickings.
His fingers curled about the hilt of his dagger. The first Yorkist to lay a hand on him would find that this corpse retained a sting.
Fortunately, a Yorkist captain called his men away. Grumbling and swearing at the interruption, they departed. Their voices gradually faded out of hearing.
Martin remained where he was, waiting for silence to fall over the stricken field. Hours passed. The dreaded cramp stole back over his limbs, rising to an almost unbearable crescendo of pain, but still he dared not move. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he bit back the agony.
The battle had been fought in early morning mist, and was over by seven o’clock at the latest. That meant he had an entire day to wait for the cover of darkness. He could not afford to wait that long. Looters were picking their way over the field, local peasants as well as Yorkists. Someone was bound to discover him before long.
Such risk had to be turned to his advantage. Martin waited, like a sea predator waiting patiently on the ocean floor for its prey to come along.
After some time had passed – he had no idea how long – he heard the clop of hoofs, and the jingle of harness as a rider dismounted.
Heavy footsteps thumped slowly over the grass. They stopped for a moment, doubtless while the newcomer inspected what was left of the soldier Martin had failed to aid.
“Greedy fuckers,” he heard someone mutter under his breath. Clearly the soldier’s body had been thoroughly ransacked.
The footsteps thumped closer. A shadow fell across Martin’s back. Rough fingers crawled across his neck, searching for a pulse. Before they could find it Martin ripped out his dagger and stabbed upwards.
He had to draw with his left hand, not his favoured side, but God blessed his aim. The tip of his blade thrust easily into the soft jelly of the man’s eyeball.
His victim started to scream. Martin rolled onto his side and clapped his free hand over the Yorkist’s face, desperate to stifle the noise before anyone heard.
A powerful hand clamped onto Martin’s wrist. He looked up at a bearded, rough-hewn face, contorted in agony.
He shifted his grip, seized the man’s throat and dragged him down. A brief, frenzied struggle ensued. Martin managed to withdraw his dagger and tried to stab his foe in the heart. The Yorkist, half-blinded and crazed with pain, thrashed and struck out wildly.
Martin’s superior weight and strength told. He pinned his enemy down and forced the dagger up under his ribcage.
“Please,” the Yorkist rasped, choking out the words while Martin’s steel fingers pressed on his windpipe, “please…”
He struggled and shuddered violently as the blade slid home. Martin lay on top of him until the spasms had ceased, shifting his hand to cover the dying man’s face.
Once he was dead, Martin threw caution aside and struggled to his feet. Ignoring the tearing pain in his cramped, aching muscles, he quickly scanned the field for any signs of life.
Save for the Yorkist’s horse, there were none. The fog had lifted somewhat, but tendrils of mist still drifted across the field, curling about fallen banners and broken bodies. Many of the slain had been entirely stripped of armour and clothing, and lay naked as new-born babes, waiting to be thrown into mass graves.
Martin could hear voices, carried on the wind. There were still plenty of scavengers about. No doubt some Yorkist soldiers were also present, searching the field for survivors. The bodies of Exeter and Montagu, as well as lesser Lancastrian lords, would make fine trophies.
He sheathed his bloody dagger and carefully approached the horse, not wishing to alarm her. She was a chestnut mare, small and compact, of the sort that common archers rode and were called rounceys.
Thankfully, she appeared to be an even-tempered creature, and stood peacefully cropping the grass while her master lay dead, just a few feet away.
“Gently,” he breathed, his armour clanking as he moved closer, “gently, now.”
He made a grab for the reins. She made no attempt to shy away, but merely lifted her head and regarded him quizzically as he stroked her neck and heaved himself into the saddle.
With a last look over the battlefield, and at the body under the hedge, he wheeled the rouncey about and urged her into a gallop.
Chapter 22
London, 16thApril
After his victory at Barnet King Edward led his battered but elated army back to London. He took with him the bodies of Warwick and Montagu, intending them to put them on public display at Saint Paul’s, so all could see they were truly dead.
Edward appreciated the power of rumour. He bore in mind the stories of Hotspur surviving the Battle of Shrewsbury, back in his grandsire’s day, and stealing away from the field to plan fresh risings in the north. Henry Bolingbroke, the first Lancastrian king, had quashed them by hanging Hotspur’s naked body in the marketplace of Shrewsbury between two mill-wheels.
The mortal remains of Warwick and Montagu were destined for more respectful treatment.
“Strip the bodies of their armour. Have them washed and perfumed and dressed in fresh linen,” he ordered his servants charged with the gruesome task, “I want no offensive smells in the cathedral, and no man accusing me of gloating over their deaths.”
His brothers did not agree on much, but both were perplexed at his attitude.
“You are the conqueror,” said Clarence, “and should be seen to behave like one. Have the bodies beheaded and quartered, and despatch the pieces to be displayed in every English city. Let their heads be spiked over London Bridge, as befits traitors.”
Gloucester nodded in approval, but Edward would not hear of it. “I see Warwick’s death has caused you few problems,” he said, regarding Clarence with distaste, “have you no pity for your old crony?”
Clarence had the grace to blush. “I have repented of my sins,” he mumbled.
“Indeed, you deserted your friends just in time,” said Gloucester, “else we would be scrubbing and anointing your fat carcase to be put on display.”
Edward intervened before any more harsh words were said. “Peace, you two,” he said with a scowl, “we have won a great victory. I will not have it soured with petty squabbles.”
A victory, he reflected, but not final victory. Even as he sat resting in his tent after Barnet, almost prostrate with exhaustion and grief for the passing of Warwick, his one-time friend and ally, a messenger had arrived with news that Margaret of Anjou’s fleet had been sighted off the coast near Weymouth.
The recent storms had scattered the English fleet, and there was nothing to prevent her landing. Knowing it was foolish to force-march his tired army west to fight another battle so soon, Edward had retired to London. There he waited, sick at heart of fighting but not daring to show it, for fresh news of the queen’s movements.
Warwick and Montagu were laid out in state at Saint Paul’s, just as he had ordered. People flocked to the cathedral in their hundreds to look at them. They departed, so Edward hoped, in absolute certainty that the souls of the Nevill brothers had fled, and their cause was dust.
“Now we jus
t have to hope that no miracles are reported at their tombs,” he remarked, half-seriously, before instructing that the bodies be taken and laid to rest in the Nevill family vault at Bisham Abbey.
Late that evening the expected news from the south-west arrived. A messenger was admitted to Edward’s presence in a private chamber inside Westminster Palace.
“The Queen landed at Weymouth two days ago, Majesty,” he said breathlessly, “I personally saw her army disembark, guarded by French warships.”
“Damn King Louis,” said Edward, “he makes trouble for us at every turn. How many men has she got?”
“Some three thousand, Majesty.”
“Mercenaries and Lancastrian exiles,” said Gloucester, “have Somerset and Courtenay joined her yet?”
The messenger shook his head. “Not yet, lord, but they are marching to meet her at Cerne Abbey. I don’t know how many men they have gathered.”
Edward pondered for a moment. “She cannot yet know that Warwick is dead,” he said, “for the storms will have prevented any messages crossing to France. What will the old bitch do, once she learns that her greatest ally is no more?”
“Turn around and run back to France,” said Clarence, though without much conviction.
“All depends on the support she receives in the south-west,” put in Gloucester, “if men there flock to her banner, she will gather quite a host. That part of England is rotten with Lancastrian sympathisers.”
Edward thought for a moment. “She does not lack for allies,” he said. “Besides Somerset and Courtenay, there is Jasper Tudor in Wales. If she means to fight, her best course would be to march north with all speed and join forces with Tudor’s Welshmen.”
He suppressed a groan. Wales and the South-West would soon be alive with conspiracy and rebellion. No matter what he did, no matter how many times he crushed his enemies in battle, fresh crises always arose.
When he was young and full of dreams, the crown had seemed like a great prize. One he had coveted and fought for. In truth it was an intolerable burden. He would never know a moment’s peace for as long as he wore it.
“Another battle looms before us, my lords,” he said, drawing himself up, “commissions of array must be sent out to every county in England. We need fresh men, to replace those killed at Barnet, and quickly.”
“Fresh meat,” said Clarence, with the ghost of a smile. Edward pointedly ignored him. The duke was still under a cloud, and had few friends at court.
Over the next few days riders were despatched from London, bearing commissions of array to raise troops with all haste and fetch them back to the capital.
Meanwhile news streamed in from Edward’s network of spies and agents. None of it was good. Margaret had joined with her allies at Cerne Abbey, and from there the combined army marched to Exeter. As Edward feared, the men of Devon and Cornwall were still loyal to Lancaster, and rose in their thousands to join her.
At the same time he learned that the Bastard of Fauconberg, a Nevill by-blow and notorious pirate, was gathering a fleet at Calais. He intended to land at Sandwich, muster the men of Kent and march on London.
This raised a new and horrifying possibility. “If we march west to face the Queen,” said Edward when he learned of the ships assembling at Calais, “we leave the capital wide open to attack by Fauconberg.”
“I will be caught between two fires,” he added, “just as I was before, at Coventry.”
“And emerged unscathed,” Gloucester reminded him, “you are proof against any flames, brother. The Devil cannot touch you.”
Edward looked at him gratefully. Since his first taste of battle at Barnet, where he had performed with heroic valour against the Duke of Exeter’s division, Gloucester had been his bulwark. Never dismayed, contemptuous of any danger, his youngest brother was growing in confidence and ability just when Edward needed him to.
Drawing strength from Gloucester’s conviction, he made the brave decision to quit London and hunt down his enemy in the west. The alternative was to stay put and wait for the Queen and Fauconberg to converge upon the capital, which was unacceptable. Edward’s best hope, as ever, was to march out and fight.
Even during those days of frantic activity, his thoughts often strayed to his rival in the Tower. The continued existence of Henry VI, now once again mere Henry of Lancaster, was becoming an absurdity. That wretched, threadbare clown, his mind completely overthrown, his body rank and stinking, still posed a grave threat to the House of York.
Already regarded by some as a living saint, sainthood being the preserve of unwashed holy fools, Henry remained a beacon of hope for the Lancastrians. His very name was a rallying-cry for those mustering in Devon and Cornwall and Wales. They took up arms on his behalf.
It was a problem Edward had long appreciated, but still his conscience would not permit him to apply the obvious remedy.
Gloucester no longer tried to persuade him to do away with Henry. He had suffered enough sharp reproofs, and confined himself to meaningful looks whenever Henry’s name was mentioned in council. Edward ignored them, and gave orders for the guard at the Tower to be doubled when the army marched from London.
“Even if the worst befalls, and Fauconberg storms the city in our absence,” he said, “he will not be able to take the Tower. It is the strongest fortress in England, and can hold out against a lengthy siege until we return.”
If we return, he added silently. Edward was acutely aware that God’s grace had preserved him in all his battles. No more so than at Barnet, where only Oxford’s mistaken attack on Montagu’s division had saved the Yorkist army from near-certain defeat.
Divine grace was not a finite or reliable resource. He felt certain it would desert him at some point. His soldiers thought otherwise, and confidently sang in the streets that where King Edward led, victory was sure to follow.
He had no choice but to live up to their ideal. On the nineteenth of April he led his hastily mustered army out of London and marched to Windsor. The march was slow, thanks to the creaking wagons that straggled along in the rear, loaded down with the royal artillery and guns captured from the wreck of Warwick’s army at Barnet.
At Windsor the army halted, waiting for reliable word of the Queen’s movements. Her intentions were unknown. Would she make a dash for the Welsh border, to join with Jasper Tudor and then head for the Lancastrian heartlands in the north, or swing east and advance on London?
Thus Edward waited, and prepared his soul for one more battle.
Chapter 23
James travelled north with Lord Bulstrode’s men as they hurried to join Montagu at Pontefract, and delivered his letter to the Marquis in person when they met with his army on the road.
That done, he left the army and rode south-west, back towards Staffordshire. He took his prisoner with him, and two of Warwick’s archers, whom he had bribed to leave the earl’s service and accompany him. Still wary of their captain, he took care to slip away under cover of darkness, while the Lancastrian army was settling down for supper.
A half-moon hung in the velvet night sky, and that was all the light James needed to find his way along roads he had ridden up and down many times in the previous ten years. His long service as an equerry had led to him acquiring an intimate knowledge of England’s roads and highways.
Geoffrey was gagged for the first stage of the journey, and his wrists bound in front of him. To prevent any attempt at escape, one of the archers rode on the saddle behind him, guiding his horse. The spare fourth horse was led by his comrade.
“One wrong move, Malvern,” James warned him before they set out, “and you die. Understand?”
Geoffrey nodded. He was a surprisingly compliant prisoner, meek and quiet and obedient, and had been so since James discovered him playing the Fool at Crowspur Castle. James was taking no chances. He remembered how sly Geoffrey had been as a child, and suspected the boy was father to the man.
They rode hard for two hours before James allowed a rest inside a l
ittle wood. Under the shelter of the trees they ate a hasty supper of bread and dried meat, and drank watered wine.
“Remove his gag,” James ordered. When that was done, he passed Geoffrey the wineskin and a bit of bread.
“Where are we going?” Geoffrey asked after he had greedily sucked down some wine and wiped his lips. His tone was as docile as ever, and James read nothing but servility in his eyes.
“Home,” James replied curtly, “does that please you?”
The other man paused in the act of lifting the bread to his mouth. “May I ask why?” he ventured.
“You may.” James allowed a few seconds to pass before continuing, just long enough for Geoffrey to feel a spark of hope.
“We are going back to Staffordshire,” he went on, folding his arms, “so you can finally make amends for your family’s treachery. Your father slew mine. By rights I should kill you. That is how the blood-feud works, does it not?”
“And your brother slew my father,” Geoffrey shot back. There was no docility in his voice now. Even a rat, James reflected, had points of pride.
“Yes,” he said, “and so it goes on, through the ages, until all parties have forgotten why they are killing each other. I have something else in mind.”
He leaned forward in the saddle and tapped Geoffrey’s thigh. “We are going home, wretch, so you can put your signature on a charter I intend to draw up. The charter will declare that you, Sir Geoffrey Malvern, have decided to quitclaim all rights to Malvern Hall and its surrounding farms and lands, and do instead bequeath them to your neighbour Martin Bolton, esquire.”
He relished the frozen look on Geoffrey’s face. This was a thousand times better than a simple hanging or beheading. Forcing the whoreson to disinherit himself was the sweetest form of revenge James could have devised.
Then it was James’ turn for a shock. The corner of Geoffrey’s mouth twitched, and he threw his head back and burst into a peal of laughter. The noise echoed through the woods, startling an owl into dropping from her perch and flapping away into the night.
Loyalty Page 17
