Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses)

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘And so I might, still,’ Edward replied, though his heart was not truly in the words. Faced with an army the size of the one that had camped at Tadcaster, the city of York had been hostage. He decided on the spot to hold them innocent and seek no penalty, either in gold or bloody executions. His father had said that a man was revealed by how he conducted himself when he held power. It mattered to the young king.

  Norfolk dipped his head further, well aware that he was still blamed for his late arrival, hated and praised in the same breath by some. He had chosen to make no excuses, though the hours lost and desperate in the snow had been perhaps the hardest of his entire life. He had thought he would trudge through white nothingness for ever and see a kingdom lost as a result. He had thought he might choke to death on the blood that surged into his throat.

  ‘Your Highness, they say also that Queen Margaret and her husband rode out of the city with the sunrise.’

  ‘With carts, carriages?’ Edward snapped, his gaze sharpening. It was only an hour or two past noon. If Margaret had taken a trundling cart, he might overtake them yet.

  ‘Left behind, Your Highness. They took only horses, with saddlebags for kit and coin. I could send a dozen men out after them, even so, my lord. They went east, perhaps to the coast. They all agree on that in the tavern.’

  ‘Send your dozen,’ Edward said, happy to make a quick choice. ‘Bring them back.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ the duke said, bowing low.

  Edward watched Norfolk as he strode back down the street to the waiting riders. The young king was enjoying the way men came to him for favours and answers. It was a heady feeling, and the best of it was that he knew his father’s spirit would be roaring out his delight. The house of York had come to rule all England. Wherever Margaret ran, it would not change what she and her husband had lost on the killing field between Saxton and Towton – or what Edward had won. It was as if they had dropped a crown and seen it roll through blood to his hand.

  21

  Margaret hid her bitterness, keeping her head high and the faintest of smiles on her lips. She understood by then what it was like to see a precious alliance torn up and tossed on the fire. All she had left was her pride, and she clung to that.

  At first, crossing into Scotland had felt like a weight lifted away. The hard ride north had taken her family out of King Edward’s reach, bringing such a surge of relief that she had been dazed by it, almost falling from the saddle. Yet from their first meeting, Queen Mary of Guelders had made no secret of her disappointment and anger. It showed in the scowls and scornful glances of the Scottish lairds, in the very tone of their voices when they deigned to speak to Margaret at all.

  Margaret had been a woman to flatter before. After the slaughter at Towton, she had nothing left to offer. Worse, she was hunted and weary, holding on to her dignity by her fingernails and little else. Crossing the port in moonlight, she tried not to let them see how much they had hurt her.

  With a curse, she felt her foot twist on the cobbles, as if even the stones wanted her away. Biting her lip, she put out an arm that Somerset held until she was steady. Dawn was still some way off and Laird Douglas had decided to use the dark to bustle her small party out to the ship waiting for them.

  King Henry and her son walked at the heart of them, the boy fallen silent for once in that tight group of warriors, all ready to defend or attack. Margaret could not see her husband’s expression, but she ground her teeth at the sound of his humming, the man utterly untroubled by any sense of danger. It was not beyond possibility that they would encounter armed men waiting on the docks, either hunters sent by Edward or just some local bullies who had not been properly bought.

  Margaret had heard the orders Mary of Guelders had given to Laird Andrew Douglas and his soldiers. If they were stopped or challenged, their response was to be fresh blood on those cobbles. One way or another, the ship would sail before dawn. Margaret suspected the Scottish queen mother wished only to be rid of her little family. It had not been said aloud, but it was clear that there would be no gift of Berwick to the Scottish court for the army Margaret had taken south. Nor would her son be expected to marry a Scottish princess. Margaret had lost everything it had been in her power to promise, and Mary of Guelders would have to make peace with a new king in England.

  Margaret prayed in the darkness that she would not be betrayed. She knew she depended upon a woman’s sense of pity – and that thought was not a pleasing one. It was all too easy to imagine the ship sailing round the coast and up the Thames, to be greeted by a delighted crowd of Edward’s lords. She shuddered at the thought.

  Margaret could see the merchant cog in the moonlight. The vessel rocked on the stone dock, snubbing the lines that held it to the shore. Dark figures scurried in the rigging and across the yards, loosening gaskets on the sails so that they fluttered white in the darkness.

  As they came to the very edge of the wharf, Margaret saw that a gangway led up to the waist of the ship, wide enough for a horse. Laird Douglas cleared his throat and halted the little party while six of his men went on board and searched the holds and tiny cabins. They returned with a low whistle and the Douglas relaxed, making a crackling sound in his lungs as he wheezed. He was not a well man, Margaret realized, but the Scot had completed the duty given to him. He had not been one of those who frowned too hard at her for all she had lost, and she was grateful to him. It was all part of the world she was leaving behind – a world of loyal men. She had five servants with her, two guards and three maids to help with her husband. One of them was a strong Scottish girl provided by Mary of Guelders. Bessamy had forearms like legs of ham, and though she spoke little English, she had been enormously helpful in entertaining the Prince of Wales.

  Margaret felt her smile grow strained and false at the thought. Her son would be just Edward of Westminster, or Edward Lancaster, when they left the coast. His title had been stolen from him along with his inheritance, though he did not fully understand the loss, not then.

  The Scottish guards had taken up positions along the dock. The servants had gone on board with the bags and chests, with Bessamy taking Edward by the hand and telling him he was a dote and a plum. Margaret remained with Laird Douglas and Somerset and her husband, who had stopped his humming to look at the ship and the sea beyond.

  ‘My lord Douglas, you have my thanks for all you have done,’ Margaret said. ‘Will you allow me a moment now to speak to my lord Somerset alone? There are things I must say.’

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ the Douglas replied, bowing low, though it set his lungs to wheezing once again. He strode away and drew the closest of his men with him along the docks, for all the world like a father out strolling with his warlike sons.

  Margaret turned to Somerset, taking his hand in both of hers and not caring who saw the gesture. Weeks had passed since Towton. The spring had reached even so far north as the east coast of Scotland. They could not have sailed if it had not, but even in spring the little merchant cog would hug the shore until they crossed to France. She had been told it could take just three or four days with good winds. Beyond that, she had written letters to run before her, calling on names and places in France she had not considered for half her life.

  She breathed out slowly, aware that her mind was running wild on trivial details, just to avoid speaking aloud the decision she had made. She did not want to see Somerset disappointed in her.

  ‘Margaret, what is it?’ he asked. ‘Did you leave something behind? Once you are safely in France, I can have anything sent to you.’

  ‘I want you to keep my husband,’ Margaret said. Her voice cracked with nerves as she rushed on before he could reply. ‘You have friends and supporters still, men who would hide the true king of England. I have only a few servants and I cannot look after Henry where I am going. Please. He knows nothing of France now, his life as it is now. He would suffer away from the things he knows.’

  She stole a glance at Henry, but he still stared ou
t to sea, lost in the glitter of moonlight on the deep waters.

  Somerset gently removed her hands from his own.

  ‘Margaret, he would surely be safer in France, where he can be hidden away. King Edward would not invade to seek him out, at least I do not think he would. But if you leave him here, there will always be a chance of him being found or betrayed. I do not think you have considered it all, my lady.’

  Margaret set her jaw, clenching the muscles there so that her teeth creaked. She had endured a great deal in fifteen years. England had given her much but stolen away more than she dared to examine. She thought of her sister’s happy marriage and her mother’s less happy one. Margaret’s father still lived, she knew. She would visit the old man in Saumur Castle. The thought of it brought a pang of homesickness she had not experienced for years. She glanced again at her husband, more child than man, more fool than king. Her father would scorn him and humiliate him. If she took Henry to France, he was most likely to be used and sold to the French court. They’d wipe their knives on him and hang their cloaks on his shoulders. Somerset was perhaps too decent a man to know how poorly Henry would be treated. She raised her head, in control of herself.

  ‘It is my order to you, my lord Somerset. Keep my husband safe, in manors far from the roads. Let him be given what books he asks for – and have a trusted priest hear his sins each day. He will be happy then. That is all I ask.’

  ‘Very well, my lady,’ Somerset replied.

  He was stiff and hurt, as she had known he would be. The young man wore the same look of suffering as when she had told him he would not accompany her. Though Somerset would surely be hunted and attainted, the young duke was a man of good reputation and high estate. Others would still rally behind him, perhaps. Either way, he would not suit her new life in France.

  One by one, she had cast off the coins weighing down the seams of her cloak. She had her son, and if she had lost the rest, at least it had been lost well. She had given half her life to England. It was enough.

  ‘Message here! Hie! Message!’ came a voice from the wharf buildings, where the merchants stored their cargoes.

  The laird and his men bristled immediately, drawing swords and daggers and striding back over the cobbles to put themselves between Margaret and any possible threat. Until the ship had left the dock, she was their responsibility.

  The messenger was a young man, wearing a fine cloak over what could have been bright colours in better light; Margaret could not tell. The Douglas had oil lamps brought over from the ship while the stranger remained silent, under guard. In the gleams they cast, Margaret watched as the man shrugged and stripped to the waist at a barked order. He revealed a physique as ridged and marked as that of any pit-fighter in London. Though the Scottish soldiers removed a single and obvious dagger with its scabbard, the appearance and number of scars troubled the Douglas and Somerset in equal measure.

  ‘I don’t like this, my lady,’ Somerset murmured. ‘The fellow is dressed as a herald, but I would not trust him into arm’s reach.’

  Margaret nodded, knowing only too well that King Edward could have sent a dozen killers after her. Such men were more common in France and Italy, but they existed right to Cathay and spent their lives training for a perfect kill. She shuddered.

  ‘Speak your message aloud, sir,’ she called to him. ‘These are trusted men around me and they will kill you if you mean me harm.’

  The young man bowed elaborately, though his face remained stern.

  ‘My lady, I am told to say this to you: “I am the smiler, the knife beneath the cloak.” Though I have no beer, I would serve you on my honour. My name is Garrick Dyer.’

  Margaret felt herself grow pale, even as Somerset and the Douglas both erupted in anger and confusion.

  ‘I believe I do know Master Dyer, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am just sorry I did not … recognize him before.’

  It was a moment of bitter-sweetness, perfectly suited to her mood in leaving a country she had grown to love – and to hate. Margaret turned away, gathering her skirts and cloak to walk on to the waiting ship. By then, all movement had ceased and the sailors were still in the shrouds and rigging.

  She heard the snap of a crossbow behind, but she did not see Garrick Dyer struck, so that he raised his hand in confusion to the inch of iron showing through his ribs. He dropped to sprawl on the cobbles. Margaret was still turning as the Douglas roared orders and Somerset grabbed the queen and bustled her to the gangway.

  ‘Get on board, Margaret!’ the young duke shouted in her ear.

  The lamps had gone flying as men dropped them to reach for swords. Yet the moonlight was enough. In that pale whiteness, from between the cargo houses came a shuffling figure, bent over, with an oddly twisting gait. Somerset would have rushed Margaret right across the deck and down to the hold, but she struggled in his grasp, wanting to see.

  ‘It’s just one man,’ she said, panting. ‘One assassin who has shot his bolt and will not live to reach me now.’

  She watched as the Scots surrounded the shadowy figure. He was speaking to them, she could see, his hands gesturing. She was ready to turn away once they went in to kill him. She had seen too many deaths in her thirty-one years. Yet they did not. One of them called back to the laird and Margaret’s brow creased as the Douglas went stomping over to hear whatever the man was saying. To her surprise, the elderly Scot took the fellow firmly by the arm and walked him over the quay towards her. Some of his followers gathered the fallen lamps once more, lighting one from another until they could cast light on the assassin.

  Margaret gasped, raising her hand to her mouth. Derry Brewer’s face was wrapped in filthy strips of cloth, so thick with dried blood that it changed the entire shape of his head. He regarded her with one gleaming eye, though she could see he was bent over some deeper wound, unable to stand straight. He limped with every step, and yet she knew she had left him at the camp in Tadcaster, some two hundred miles to the south. In that moment, she had a glimpse of his determination. She felt a rush of shame at the fine welcome and aid she had been given, all while a wounded man came after her.

  ‘Evening, my lady,’ Derry Brewer said. ‘I am the smiler, the knife beneath the cloak. I don’t know who that other cunt was.’

  ‘Derry!’ Margaret said, in shock as much at his appearance as at his words.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady.’ Derry looked back at the body on the cobbles and shook his head. ‘He was one of mine. I’ll claim him in death, my lady. I can do that much for him.’

  ‘If he was your man, why did you … ?’ Margaret broke off as her spymaster raised his head, peering at her from under brown cloth. He held one hand into his stomach and every inch of him was grimed with dirt or blood.

  ‘He would have welcomed my return, right enough, then finished me with a dose, or a knife, or a fall over the side. Or I misjudged him. Either way, I’ve learned not to regret what I can’t change. I am returned to you, my lady.’

  Derry staggered slightly and would have gone down on to one knee if the Douglas hadn’t held him up.

  ‘You’ll be allowing this fellow on board, then, my lady?’ the Scot asked, his expression sceptical.

  ‘Of course, my lord Douglas. Whatever else he has done, Derry Brewer is my loyal servant still. Have him taken below, please, to be washed and fed and tended in the warm.’ She could see Derry’s head was lolling, at the ragged end of exhaustion and unhealed wounds.

  Margaret waited until the Scots had passed Derry into the care of her servants and stepped down to the quayside. She faced the Douglas and Somerset squarely, accepting their bows before she turned to her husband and stood between him and the sea.

  ‘Lord Somerset will keep you safe, Henry,’ she said.

  The king looked down at her, smiling gently.

  ‘As you say, Margaret,’ he murmured.

  There was nothing in Henry’s eyes beyond a perfect peace. Margaret had wondered if she would feel the sting of tears in her own, b
ut she did not. All the battles were lost. The hand had written ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin’ on the wall, those ancient words in a language no one knew. Not a letter could be taken back and all her decisions were made.

  Without another word, she walked up on to the ship, grasping a rail as the sailors cast off and leaped aboard behind her, agile as apes. The wind and tide bore Margaret away: to France, to her childhood estate of Saumur and to her father. She had no doubt the old slug would scorn her for her failures, yet she had come so close. She had been a queen of England and tens of thousands had fought and died in her name, for her honour. She raised her head in pride again at that thought, banishing despair as the wind picked up.

  Her son Edward clattered out on deck as soon as he felt movement, leaning out to watch the dark water sliced into foam and calling to his mother in excitement to come and see. Spring was on the way and Margaret took heart from that. She did not look back at the men standing on the shore, left behind.

  1464

  Three years after Towton

  22

  ‘Who is this woman?’ demanded King Louis of France, fanning himself against the still, heated air of his palace. ‘To write so often, to beleaguer me in such a way?’

  ‘Margaret of Anjou is your first cousin, Your Majesty,’ his chancellor whispered, leaning forward to speak into the king’s ear. Louis turned to him with an expression of scorn.

  ‘I know very well who she is, Lalonde! I exclaimed aloud as a question théorique, or de rhétorique, given that none of you seem able to explain my best course.’

  The rumour at court was that Chancellor Albert Lalonde was at least eighty or even ninety; no one knew for certain. Lalonde moved and spoke slowly, but his skin was surprisingly smooth, with lines so fine they remained invisible until he frowned or suffered pangs from his two remaining molars. He admitted only to being in his sixth decade, though his childhood companions were all long dead. There were some in the court who said the chancellor’s earliest memories included a sighting of the ark. King Louis tolerated him for the stories Lalonde could recall of his father as a boy and young man. It was certainly not for the chancellor’s intelligence.