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

by Conn Iggulden

Warwick lurched, spilling his wine as a young man gestured, singing or shouting with wild movements that overset a ham and sent it spinning with a crash of crockery. He swore under his breath, sensing that Elizabeth was still watching him. She had appeared puzzled by his role in her husband’s life, seeing no reason for Edward to have private meetings with Warwick and a few other men. The Privy Council had not been disbanded, but in the previous three months of her influence, Edward had attended only once. If some matter of law or custom needed his attention, it had to be brought to him in person, with Elizabeth often present at those times, to cast an eye over the papers and have her husband explain them to her.

  Warwick settled down to wrestling a dark clove from where it had become stuck between two of his teeth. Of course, Edward had no fine understanding of Parliament or bills of law, so it fell to lawyers and lords to reduce them for the queen, while she listened with wide eyes and her bosom artfully displayed. Much older men grew flustered and pink under that complete and perfect attention.

  Warwick sank his cup of wine and watched it refilled. He realized he disliked the woman intensely – and unfortunately lusted after her at one and the same time. It was a frustrating position and he sensed he would have no satisfaction on either count. Elizabeth had been crowned queen consort. She was clearly of the opinion that her great lumbering husband needed no other counsel but her own, at least where the Woodvilles were concerned.

  ‘Of course you must sing for us, Richard!’ Warwick heard Elizabeth cry out. He choked on a draught of wine and coughed wildly as the table cheered and stamped. Yet it was Edward’s brother who stood and bowed, smiling shyly at his sister-in-law and sipping from a goblet of wine to clear his throat.

  Warwick only hoped Richard of Gloucester would not be made a fool of in that place. He knew him well enough by then to take pride in his accomplishments. Stranger still, to think Warwick could recall the father’s pleasure at his birth. It was just twelve years and perhaps half a dozen lifetimes before, when the world had been better, when his own father had been still alive and he had wanted somehow to force Henry to be a good king … Warwick felt his brother John’s gaze and raised his eyes in bitter self-mockery. There was never a way back. There was never a chance to undo old mistakes. A man simply had to go on, or let it break him.

  The king’s brother had a sweet enough voice, clear and calm as he sang of courtly love. Warwick let the tune wash over him, remembering a gardener at the Middleham estate he had once known. The man had worked for his father for thirty years, his skin as brown as leather from a life outside. Looking back, Warwick realized Charlie had been a little simple. The woman he lived with in their cottage on the estate had been his mother, not his wife, as the boy Warwick had believed. Certainly, Charlie had never recalled his name, greeting him as ‘Curly’ each time they met, though his hair was straight. Warwick looked blearily into his wine cup, wondering why the man’s memory should have intruded upon him in that place. He remembered Charlie’s leg had been crushed by a cart when he was a boy, leaving it twisted and the leg always, always in pain.

  ‘I have known cuts and fevers,’ the younger Warwick had said to him, in all his youthful innocence. ‘And a rotten tooth that had me weeping like a child until it was pulled. How is it that you can bear your biting leg, as you have described it, beyond bearing, waking and sleeping, never coming to an end? Charlie, how does it not break you in two?’

  ‘Did you think it doesn’t?’ Charlie had murmured, staring into the darkness. ‘Why, I would say I have been broken a thousand times, reduced to a helpless, weeping boy. Yet I do not die, Curly! The sun comes up and I must rise and be about my work once again. But never say I am unbroken, sunshine. I break every day.’

  Warwick shook his head, rubbing his palm into an eye socket. The damned wine was making him maudlin – and in a company of sideways glances and cruel smiles that made him feel he had fallen in with wolves.

  The song ended, the young singer blushing as praise was called from one end of the table to the other. As Duke of Gloucester, Richard Plantagenet had been given vast estates, all managed by stewards and just waiting for him to take them up. From King Edward’s hand, generosity flowed without stinting, without thought of consequence.

  Perhaps Edward sensed the intensity of Warwick’s gaze on him. He met Warwick’s eyes and rose to his feet, swaying slightly, so that he leaned forward and braced one arm straight amongst the jugs. His brother Richard sat down and the laughter and conversations fell away as they waited for the king of England to speak.

  ‘I give you all honour tonight, but I will raise a cup with one who saw me as a king before I did myself. Earl Warwick, Richard Neville, whose father stood with mine – and died with mine. Whose uncle and brother fought with me at Towton, when the snow fell and we could not see … I tell you, I would not stand here today without his aid. I give you the toast then. To Warwick.’

  The rest of them rose to their feet with much scraping and squeaking of chairs, quickly echoing the words. As the only one still seated, Warwick tried to ignore one of Elizabeth’s brothers, whispering and laughing. They were small men and women, of a cheap and vulgar line. He bowed his head to Edward in thanks.

  As the drunken king collapsed back into his chair, Warwick heard Elizabeth’s question to him. She had half hidden her mouth behind her hand, but the timing and the volume were perfectly judged to carry to his ears.

  ‘Yet he could not win without you, my love. Is that not what you said?’

  Edward did not seem to realize the words had reached anyone else. The king merely chuckled and shook his head. A servant placed a platter of sizzling kidneys on the broad table by Edward and his eyes widened with fresh interest, reaching out with a knife to spear a few before he could be served. The young king was too drunk to realize the volume of talk and laughter at the table had fallen to whispers and murmurs. Half the Woodvilles there were waiting in delight to see how he would answer, taking their confidence from Elizabeth as they hid their mouths with cloths and darted glances at one another.

  ‘At St Albans, Edward?’ Elizabeth went on, pressing. ‘You said he could not win without you there. You had to lead at Towton. My brother Anthony fought on the other side – oh, you have forgiven him already, my love! Anthony said you were a colossus, a lion, a Hercules on the field.’ Elizabeth sought out her brother along the table’s length, a great ox of a man, with hairy forearms resting unnoticed in a slop of beer and gravy. ‘Did you see my lord Warwick on the field at Towton, Anthony? They say he fought the centre.’

  ‘I did not see him,’ her brother replied, grinning in Warwick’s direction.

  The man had seemed sharp enough before. Perhaps he thought his sister was jesting, enjoying a little rough sport or mockery at Warwick’s expense. To Warwick’s own eye, the little queen was deadly serious, seeking out some weakness in him. He smiled at her, raising his cup and dipping his head in her honour.

  To Warwick’s pleasure, Richard of Gloucester responded at the other end of the table, raising his cup in turn and beaming back at him. Warwick found genuine amusement and wondered if the boy understood he had taken the sting from an unpleasant moment, or whether it had just been good fortune and an error made from kindness. The boy was clever enough, all his tutors agreed on that, but he was still very young. To his surprise, Richard winked at him then, without warning, leaving Warwick staring in delight. It was hard not to like the little devil.

  Windsor Castle was both an ancient fortress and a family home, but warmth had never been among the castle’s attributes. When the country turned to short and frozen days, memories of Towton returned for those who had been there, as they did every winter, in dreams of snow and blood.

  Warwick shivered as he leaned against a bare stone wall with his brother George. The Archbishop of York had grown a sight heavier over the previous year or so, though he still worked up a sweat in sparring with his brothers when they had the chance. Such idle hours had grown somewhat fewer since the a
rrival of the Woodvilles at court.

  ‘It is passing strange,’ George said. ‘In the summer, I complained about the heat. I remember it was unbearable, but the memory no longer seems truly real. With the white ground and frost in the air, I convince myself I would give anything to sweat once more – and if I did, I do not doubt I would yearn to return to this cold. Man is a fickle creature, Richard. If not the entire class of man, at least the bishops.’

  Warwick chuckled, regarding his younger brother with affection. As an archbishop, George was a man of power and influence. Only cardinals in Rome truly outranked him, yet George was still youthful and smiled back at his brother with impish humour. The truth of their shivering was that no fire had been lit in the halls outside the king’s audience chamber.

  Warwick had been kept waiting for an hour, though it had seemed like six. As his brother looked back with longing on the summer, Warwick recalled the days when he had been able to approach Edward without announcement, without being left to kick his heels in waiting chambers like a common servant.

  The reason for the change was not a mystery. It had taken a little time, but Warwick had accepted at last that his fears were not misplaced. Elizabeth Woodville had taken a measure of the Neville influence over her husband and decided to ease them out. There was no other explanation for the way she had arranged her family like pieces on a board. Less than a full year after her arrival at court, her father had become Earl Rivers and the royal treasurer. Two of her sisters had been married off to families of power, selected with care. Warwick could only imagine that the queen spent her time in the archives at the Tower, seeking out families who might bestow yet another title on her line. Her sisters would inherit houses and lands that otherwise would have reverted to the Crown or, in one case, to a Neville cousin. Warwick grimaced at the thought, though he knew it was no more than he would have done himself. Elizabeth had the ear of her husband – and Edward was a little free with his rewards for bedplay. Warwick and the Nevilles would have to endure; there was no help for it.

  ‘How fare your wards?’ his brother said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Still making their fortune?’

  Warwick groaned in memory of the day Richard of Gloucester and Henry Percy had been discovered in the market of Middleham, selling a selection of hams and bottles of wine from Warwick’s own cellars. One of the other stallholders had sent a runner to the castle and the boys had been captured and brought back. The memory still made Warwick flush in embarrassment.

  ‘I am sorry to say they have discovered betting now. Some lads from the village are perfectly happy to take their coins, of course – and then they fight and Mother or my wife is called to rule on an entirely new set of injustices.’

  Warwick’s brother leaned closer, amused by the affection he saw.

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have sons,’ he said. ‘I can see you would have found joy in it.’

  Warwick nodded, his eyes crinkling.

  ‘I have so many memories of you and John and me, with the cousins, with those boats we made that sank, remember those? Or the horse we caught that dragged John half a mile, but he would not let go. Do you remember that? God knows I love my two girls, but it is not quite the same. Middleham was too quiet for a while, without us.’

  ‘My lord Warwick?’ a servant said.

  Warwick winked at his brother and pushed off the wall. The archbishop patted him on the shoulder, passing him on to the great doors that led to Edward’s royal presence. They opened before him.

  Gone were the days of empty rooms and silent, scurrying servants. Dozens of scribes sat at small tables along the edges of the long hall, copying documents. Others stood in small groups, discussing their business like merchants haggling a price. The court felt busy, full of bustle and serious intent.

  Warwick had a sudden memory of finding the king alone in that same hall a year or so before. Edward had been in full armour, missing only his helmet and, for some reason, one metal boot, so that his bare foot showed. The king had been wandering through the castle with a huge jug of wine in one hand and a cooked chicken clutched in the other. Those days were in the past, it seemed, under Elizabeth’s influence. For the first time, Edward had a working staff to bear the weight of ruling the kingdom. His factor, Hugh Poucher, had been a man Warwick had come to like, one who could be approached and who would always listen. He looked for some sight of him, but the man was nowhere in evidence.

  Warwick found himself following the servant through an antechamber and over to a long gallery of pale limestone. As they drew close, he heard the sound of an arrow shot. Warwick flinched instinctively, as one who had faced such things in battle. The sound echoed strangely indoors, even in that great hall. The servant had caught his shocked reaction, Warwick realized with a touch of irritation. As they reached the gallery, the man introduced him and vanished, trotting away as if he had a dozen other things to do.

  Edward stood with a drawn bow and a huge basket of arrows. A target of straw and cloth about as tall as a man had been wedged at the far end of the cloistered gallery, at least a hundred yards away. It would have been an easy distance for a true archer, but as far as Warwick knew, Edward had never shot a bow before. Most men could not even have drawn one, but the king seemed to have the strength in his sword arm. Edward had not glanced round, utterly absorbed in holding his bow steady. The target rested against oak panelling and two arrows had missed the straw circle completely. With the tip of a pink tongue showing in the corner of his mouth, Edward was the picture of concentration. He opened his hand and the arrow flew too fast to see, sinking to the feathers into the outer edge of the target. Edward smiled happily.

  ‘Ah, Richard,’ the king said. ‘I have a hundred marks resting on my skill with Sir Anthony here. Would you like to take a shot?’

  Warwick glanced at the thick-armed knight who was watching him closely. Four of the Woodville men had been added to the ranks of the Garter order, giving them the right to enter the king’s presence as his most loyal companions. Warwick had known there would surely be one or two in attendance. He wondered if Edward was even aware that he spent very few waking hours without one of the Woodvilles in his presence – and of course, his nights were spent with Elizabeth. It disturbed Warwick how completely the family had ensnared the young king. He had considered offering advice more than once, but criticizing a man’s wife was incredibly perilous. With an effort, he had kept his silence through every barb and thorn under his skin.

  Anthony was perhaps Edward’s favourite of the Woodville males. Ten years older than the king, the big knight seemed to enjoy their sparring – and was perhaps the only one of the Woodvilles who could last more than a few moments in a tournament mêlée. There was a certain amount of bristling from him when Warwick had him in sight, as if the man wanted to be a threat, or had already decided Warwick was his enemy.

  ‘Your Highness, if you would allow Sir Anthony to return to his duties, I will try a shot or two with you. I do have some Privy Council business to discuss.’

  Edward scratched one side of his face, understanding but unwilling.

  ‘Oh very well. Anthony, perhaps you would collect the arrows. I’ll have that hundred marks off you yet. I’m sure my lord Warwick will not take too much of my time.’

  Warwick hid his dismay and bowed his head. He felt Anthony Woodville watching him and ignored the man until he was out of earshot.

  ‘How is my brother?’ Edward said before he could speak.

  ‘Happy enough now,’ Warwick replied. Some of the affection he had shown outside was still there to be seen. Edward looked closely at him.

  ‘Good. Axe and sword, though – perhaps the bow as well, to build his shoulders. He was too weak before. Let me know if he gives you any trouble at all.’

  ‘Of course. His tutors say he is very quick in his lessons.’

  ‘Which will do him no good at all if he is too soft to stand in plate while another man tries to smash his face in,’ Edward said. ‘I was about a
s soft as wet leather when I went with you to Calais. Three years with the garrison made me the man I am today – under your command. Do the same with him, if you please. He is the youngest of us and he has been a child too long.’

  Warwick eyed Anthony Woodville at the other end of the hall, trying to judge how much time he had. The man was wrenching and grunting at an arrow sunk into the wooden panelling. Edward saw him looking and grumbled in his throat.

  ‘Oh very well. Say what you have come to say to me.’

  ‘It is about this latest marriage, Edward,’ Warwick said in relief. ‘John Woodville is just nineteen. Norfolk’s mother is almost seventy. If Mowbray were still alive, he would petition for justice, you know that. Your Highness, I understand the Woodvilles wish for titles, but a marriage with such a gulf in age is a step too far.’

  Edward had grown very still as he spoke, all his lightness gone. Warwick knew he was in exactly the dangerous position he had tried to avoid for a year. Norfolk had barely survived the battle of Towton, dying of some pestilence of the lungs just a few months later, which surprised no one who had seen him that day. It was a miracle he had lived to see spring.

  ‘Mowbray was a decent man, Your Highness – loyal to you when the world said he should have marched with Lancaster. Norfolk’s mother is a Neville, Edward, so I take pride in his loyalty. Yet you would allow a beardless Woodville to sit at his hearth, kissing that mother’s wrinkled cheek? I think you and I owe his family a little more dignity than that.’

  ‘Have a care …’ Edward said softly.

  He held the bow like an axe-handle, almost as wide as one at the centre point. Warwick had the sudden sense that Edward was imagining lashing out with it, some almost imperceptible play of the muscles which made him want to duck out of danger. He had seen Edward on the battlefield and knew very well what he could do. Yet he held himself still, and stared back calmly.

  ‘I do not dispute your wife’s right to find a good match for any one of her sisters or brothers, or her sons. Yet this one … this is a travesty, with half a century between them. When the old woman dies, the title will be his. How will she weep to have a stranger call her “wife” and take everything that was her son’s? This Woodville pup would be better off buying the title, Edward! To steal it in this way … it is diabolical.’