by Amy Licence
‘You should go,’ said Salisbury at once. ‘You should go to Henry. There is still a chance for you and your family.’
‘And abandon you, after all your loyalty?’
‘Warwick and I will go to Calais, we will be safe there until the wind changes.’
York shook his head. He looked to his sons and saw the answer in their eyes. ‘We stand together on this. We cannot live in permanent fear of our lives.’
‘Then what do we do next?’ asked Edward.
‘We shall return to Ludlow and say our farewells. Then we shall face the king’s army. His pardons are no true pardons and those about him do not observe his commands. We must remove those evil influences and guide the king to understand our concerns.’
‘Is this wise?’ asked Salisbury. ‘How can you strike at the heart of government and not seek to remove the queen?’
York frowned. ‘It is a riddle too difficult to resolve. We will seek guidance in prayer.’
Warwick and his father exchanged glances.
Edward saw their scepticism. ‘To Ludlow then. We will observe the feast day of St Denis and then let us see what we can resolve between us.’
*
The fires in the castle kitchen had been burning since before dawn. Spits had turned, almonds were ground and pastry rolled, in preparation of the duke’s return. As he and his sons had galloped along the Shrewsbury road, crossed the river and headed through the market square, Cecily was watching from the chamber window. They clattered into the outer courtyard with heavy hearts, while spices were being weighed in silver scales and puddings decorated with rose petals. The sun was sinking low against the horizon, and the castle blazed with light, as the musicians assembled in the gallery. The day had been filled with the scents and textures of luxury and now they bled into the evening: in fingers strumming the lute, in flagons of wine and the softness of fresh scented rushes underfoot.
Their mother’s greeting had been as warm as ever. She listened to their news with a determined cast to her face, then urged them all down to the hall in order to eat. Edward smoothed his sandy curls and followed her down the staircase. He could feel the shadow of war hanging over him, like a heavy cloak on a hot day. It would not be shaken off as he hurried through the corridors, thinking of the hours to come, slowly slipping away like the flickering of the candle flames. And the spectre of Alasia had returned to haunt him, her dark eyes full of reproach and her hands folded across the curve of her full belly. He had hoped to find a letter waiting for him at Ludlow but, so far, there had been nothing.
Tumblers were turning somersaults in the hall, flipping over and over in giddy circles. Edward paused at the foot of the staircase to watch them. Their bodies were a mass of limbs, linked then uncoupled, whirling and curving as they performed for the delight of the audience. Around their wrists and ankles, bells tinkled and bright spangles on their clothes caught the light. Between the tables, George danced with his sister Margaret, a small, restrained dance, but gleeful in the child’s enjoyment of the moment. His face was solemn in concentration but his eyes were afire with smiles. Richard, who had been suffering from an upset stomach, sat quietly in his mother’s lap, his cheeks still plump and rounded with babyhood. York was eating solemnly at the head of the table.
‘Come, sit here,’ Edmund beckoned to his older brother.
Edward strode across the floor to join them.
‘So we will march south to meet the king?’ Edmund was asking, full of enthusiasm. ‘If we take the initiative, I suppose we might engage in a week, or even less. Will it be enough time to prepare? What formation shall we use; I suppose it depends upon the lie of the land? What do you think will happen?’
York continued to eat.
‘We’ll want a good flat plain, I think, with perhaps some boundaries: a river or ditch, perhaps hedges and a wood, where we can conceal our archers. If you, Warwick and Salisbury command the three bodies, where will Edward and I be deployed?’
‘Slow down,’ York urged gently, wiping his mouth. ‘These are not questions you need to concern yourself with tonight.’
‘But I must be prepared. I must know what to expect, so I can sleep easy. It is not so much the battle that concerns me, but the not knowing. When do these questions get answered?’
‘Not at dinner.’
‘Then when?’
‘You are impatient. Trust that we have had years of experience and you will be informed of developments at the right time, now eat and rest. That is the best preparation you can make.’
Edmund scowled as York reached for a plate of mutton and prunes.
‘I’d like to know, I’d rather know. I’ve not fought before.’
His father ate steadily on.
‘And I will be fighting, won’t I?’
York turned to the bowl bearer and dipped his fingers in the rose water.
‘Father? I will be fighting! I’m ready, I know I am. I’ll be fighting beside you and Edward.’
But York was frowning. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you must let me fight, I am sixteen years old and you can’t stop me.’
‘It doesn’t sit easy with me.’
‘But Edward will fight, won’t he?’
York looked across to his eldest son, who sat devouring his meat. ‘Edward is a full year older than you. He has lived in the world more.’
‘But I am not a child. Many men fight at sixteen. Father, come on, please do not exclude me.’
‘I don’t know if your mother would ever forgive me.’
‘But I won’t stay here with the children. You took me to Worcester with you!’
‘Let me think on it.’
‘No.’ Edmund jumped up, his eyes blazing. ‘I have been treated like a child for too long, I will not be kept back like this. I will be fighting with you.’
‘Sit down, don’t make a scene.’
But Edmund was firm. ‘Not unless you let me fight.’
York shook his head. ‘This is not the way. If you wish to fight like a man you must conduct yourself like one.’
The words stung. Edmund’s face flickered before he hurried away from the table.
*
York folded his wife in his arms and pressed his lips against her soft hair. Ludlow was ringing with the sound of preparations; weapons being gathered and horses saddled. Grey, early morning light crowned the windows.
‘So it must be,’ she murmured. ‘I will commence my prayers the moment that you leave.’
‘We will return soon enough, never fear. And remember, you are to wait here until you hear word from us; on no account must you leave the castle.’
She nodded.
A mere half hour earlier she had been sleeping. He had woken early though, listening to the birds calling as the day struggled to dawn and envying her ability to lose herself in dreams.
‘Here,’ he slipped a ring from his finger, a gold band set with a ruby. ‘Wear this as a remembrance of me, keep it safe until I return to claim it.’
Cecily could not reply, her mouth was wet with tears. He slipped the ring on to her right hand.
‘It suits you, red always suits you.’
She turned the ring between finger and thumb as the tears spilled down her cheeks.
‘Come now, there is no need for this. It is the Lord’s will and we must accept it. Do not fear for me, I have good men at my side.’
‘When do you depart?’
‘The men are camped out on Ludford Field, just beyond the river. According to our scouts, the king’s army lies just north of Worcester. It is likely that we will not engage for a few days but we must be prepared.’
The door of the chamber opened. Edmund appeared first, dressed proudly in a silver breastplate, swollen with the sense of being trusted, of being a man amongst older men, seasoned with experience.
‘Mother, I come for your blessing.’
She flew to her son’s side. Yet the words would not come; the rush of emotion was such that it rendered her almost speechles
s. She drew his head down to hers, for he was taller than her now by a finger or two, and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the crown of his head.
But Edmund’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Never fear. This is just the start. I am a man like any other and can bear arms, remember all my training here, with Edward, as a boy. We ruled these fields with our bows and swords; I have tilted at the ring a thousand times and handled an axe against invisible warriors in this very room.’
Cecily could not help but smile.
‘You have indeed, you could not be better prepared, but these warriors will be real enough.’
‘I will watch him,’ added Edward, stepping up alongside them. ‘Together we are strong enough to defeat this. We will make the king see who his true loyal subjects are.’
Edward wrapped his arm about his mother’s shoulders and gently kissed her white brow.
‘See what fine men you have made,’ York whispered beside them.
She laughed through her tears.
‘And you will be safe here, with the little ones. We will march south but our army will lie between you and the king.’
Cecily nodded. ‘Just come home safely.’
There was a rap at the door, then it burst open and Warwick hurried in. He gasped for breath before delivering his message.
‘The king is on the move. He has been spotted mobilising just five miles to the south.’
‘Only five miles away?’
‘They must have marched through the day yesterday. This is it! We must go at once! Never fear, we are ready.’
York pressed his forehead against that of his wife.
‘God be with you.’
‘And with you, always.’
He kissed her lips, drawing out the seconds. Then, she turned and buried her head against Edmund’s side.
‘God be with you mother, we will see you soon.’
And then the room was silent. She heard their footsteps clattering down the steps and the raised voices of men outside, urgent in their movements.
The window overlooked the south road. It gave a view across the rooftops of the little town towards the river and the woods. Cecily hurried across the room and lifted the catch. Moments later, the procession clattered out, with York and Warwick at the head, followed by Edward, Edmund and Salisbury, then the array of liveried men and the ammunition train. She shivered at the sight of the cold steel of cannon, dragged along on the back of carts. Her eyes did not leave them until they were out of sight.
SEVENTEEN: Shame
They were approaching a ridge of trees when York raised his hand to halt the men. Edward pulled up his reins sharply and nodded to Edmund to do the same. Half the army were still trailing behind them across the bridge, making a blue and silver snake across the solid stone crossing while the grey waters of the River Teme rushed beneath. Edward shaded his eyes from the sun and tried to make out what his father had seen.
Ahead, the road curved to the right before stretching out to the south. A few buildings were dotted along the route, with smoke rising in one or two curls from their red brick chimney pieces. The land began to rise slowly, obscured by the dark masses of trees, before racing up the curve of the distant hills. Overhead, the October sky stretched away grey and clear and, as his eyes followed a dark cloud of birds rising, Edward saw it. They had been disturbed by a single rider, travelling at speed, heading directly towards them. Edward and York exchanged glances. They waited as the man approached, hoping to recognise the colours of the Yorkist livery.
‘It’s all right,’ said Edward, his young hazel eyes sharper than the rest. ‘One of ours.’
The rider approached then slowed his horse to a walk. He dismounted in a single, easy move and it was then that Edward recognised him: the broad shoulders and unmistakeable low brow of Rick Croft. He hadn’t set eyes on the man for a couple of years, yet here he was, a grown man dressed in Yorkist livery, as the bearer of news.
Croft hurried forward to kneel before York. Edward was able to take in the familiar thickset brows, the cruel eyes and mouth. He recalled the way the boy had taunted him and Edmund in the field, mocking their father and threatening them with a knife.
York was impatient. ‘Come, what news?’
‘The king’s army approaches from the south. They lie just beyond the hill.’
‘What? Here already, so soon? You are certain?’
Croft nodded. ‘I’ve just come from the ridge; I saw them myself.’
‘How many?’
‘Three thousand, perhaps four. They’re flying the king’s flag.’
Croft must have felt Edward’s eyes burning into him. For a second, his gaze left the duke’s face and flickered across to his son. Scars to his cheek and chin suggested the brutal life he had lived since they last met.
‘Good work,’ York admitted, drawing Croft back. ‘They have taken us by surprise but it does not guarantee them a victory. We must prepare ourselves to face them.’
He looked around, judging the lie of the land: the top of Ludlow Castle was still visible and he winced at the thought of engaging within its sights.
‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ added Croft, ‘there is little time and less space. You must prepare your defences here.’
York dismissed him with a nod, a sinking sensation in his gut.
Salisbury, though, was not prepared to be disheartened. ‘So it must be. At least we have advanced warning and the choice of where to deploy the men. I’ll scout out the fields to the east and see if there is any chance of pushing in that direction.’
‘We have the river too,’ added Warwick, grimly. ‘I’ll base my Calais troops along the bank to the west.’
As they rode away, Edward shot Edmund a glance. The boy looked worried but he was trying to put on a brave face.
‘Do you trust this messenger?’ Edward asked, drawing close to his father, and watching Croft’s disappearing back. ‘Shall I ride up to the ridge and take a look?’
York shook his head. ‘Unfortunately I think he speaks the truth. We must make the most of this ground and quickly, too. Let’s ride along the river and see the terrain.’
*
With a beating heart, Edward climbed to the high point of the hill, screened by the trees. Below, across the long sweep of fields, lay the king’s camp. It clung in a hollow, a cluster of tents and the rising lines of smoking fires. Thousands of men were waiting in that green space, for the clash of steel on steel, the crunch of bones and the spilling of traitors’ blood. Even the rumble of voices could be heard at that distance, as the wind was blowing towards them.
York was behind him, assessing them with narrowed eyes.
‘They outnumber us, significantly.’
His son nodded. There was no point pretending otherwise. ‘They do.’
‘That need not matter, recall Salisbury’s victory. We can make use of these woods too, position our archers here to pick them off as they advance.’
‘Yes, that could work. And our right flank could be waiting over by that barn.’
‘With the left positioned further along the road.’
Edward nodded. They would be taking a chance, but if they attacked at an unusual time, before sunrise perhaps, the element of surprise was worth a battalion alone. His eyes were drawn to a movement in the centre of the camp.
‘Father, look, there!’
Edward pointed out a blue and red flag flying above the tent roofs. ‘The king’s standard.’
‘By God!’ York’s face blanched. ‘The king is actually with them. I thought he would sit it out at Worcester.’
‘Does it change anything?’
‘Of course, of course it does. I had not seen this coming. How very clever of them.’
Edward watched the distant flag. ‘But Henry himself wouldn’t fight, would he?’
‘It makes little difference, if he is actually there, in the camp. Fighting against an army is one thing: our men can imagine it under the command of the queen or Beaufort, but to bear arms again
st the king himself…’
‘Is treason,’ completed Edward. ‘And if we lose, the price is too high.’
York wiped his brow. ‘This news cannot reach our camp. It will destroy morale. I must think, I have to think about this. I must pray and ask for guidance.’
Edward bridled at this passivity. ‘But we’ve come this far. We’re going to be openly declared traitors anyway, we lose nothing now anyway, but we might gain everything!’
‘What can we gain now? The removal of Beaufort and a new set of promises? That takes us right back to St Albans. We cannot ask for the removal of the queen. God’s blood this is a dilemma. If we take arms against the king, I cannot think that this will end well for us.’
Edward’s blood boiled. ‘But we have an army sitting waiting. We have refused his terms. We must stand our ground.’
‘And all be slaughtered?’
‘And all fight honourably. The best we can hope for is to take the king into custody, as you did after St Albans; then we can carry him with us to Westminster and make him put his signature to an act nominating you as Protector.’ The idea began to seize hold of Edward. ‘We must make him sign his rights over to you, or at least a joint Protectorate. He must acknowledge you as his heir, instead of that half-French brat; God even knows if the boy is his child!’
‘Edward!’
‘Well!’ Edward threw up his arms. ‘It would serve us better if he were the spawn of old Somerset or some other royal favourite.’
‘The queen would strangle you with her bare hands if she heard you speak such words.’
‘I stand facing her army right now, so I may as well say them.’ He pictured the queen standing over his bruised body at the jousting, her eyes narrowing.
York was silent.
‘What?’
His father shielded his eyes and scanned the enemy.
‘What, why don’t you reply?’
‘A woman’s good fame is something brittle and pure. Once it is destroyed, it is gone forever.’
Edward tried to put aside the image of Alasia that flashed into his mind. This was no time for romance. ‘But this woman has tried to kill us!’
‘Even so.’
‘But father!’
