‘You should climb back out, if you can,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘My men will be looking for me and you don’t want to be found by them. The dog is payment for my wounds, my lady. Good day to you.’
Elizabeth Grey watched him leave. She could sense the glassy darkness in the young giant, as well as the physical power in him. The combination was enough to bring an odd weakness when he had gone. She reminded herself that she was a married woman, with two strong boys and a husband in Lord Somerset’s ranks. She decided not to mention such a strange meeting to Sir John Grey. Her husband could be a suspicious fellow. She sighed to herself. She would just have to tell him the dog had died.
St Albans was barely twenty miles from London, not even a day on the road. Every man marching with the king and queen knew they could set off with the sun still climbing and see the Thames before dark. The prospect raised all their moods. London meant inns and ale. It meant being paid – and all the good things that came after. In preparation for the last march, Margaret’s army smartened themselves up as best they could, laughing and joking as they packed up the equipment and loaded carts.
Almost as soon as Warwick and Norfolk had withdrawn to the north, the news of the king’s rescue had spread. The importance of it was not lost on those who had been fighting. They were jubilant, wild with relief. Cheering had sounded across the open plain and into the town itself, gathering force in waves until they were hoarse, then beginning all over again as the royal family rode in to join them that evening.
Some of those men had marched or fought all the way from Scotland to the south. The very least of them had trudged through forest and valley to fight twice for the king against his most powerful enemies – and they had triumphed, at both Sandal and St Albans. Now the sun was rising once again. London lay ahead – and in the capital city, all the trappings of power and reward, from the courts and the sheriffs to the Palace of Westminster and the Tower. It was the heartland. London meant not only power but safety, and above all, good food and rest.
For once, Margaret did not make a show of consulting Somerset. As soon as dawn lit the camp, she passed on the order to march south. With her husband and son at her side, her lords bowed, deeply and with respect, smiling all the while.
King Henry’s presence was a talisman, Margaret could see. Those who had grown surly or resentful under her orders were once again careful and blank-faced. Others who had become too familiar in her presence kept a new, respectful distance. Drummers thumped out martial rhythms and the men sang marching songs with one hand on their hearts. The mood was both joyous and brittle, a mélange of having survived and having suffered, with the prospect of reward still ahead.
It did not matter that Henry understood nothing. The king and queen of England rode with the Prince of Wales to their capital city. The heavy cannon they had captured at St Albans fell behind as the army spread for miles down the city road.
The royal family rode abreast, with Somerset and Earl Percy slightly ahead. For all the sense of victory, the senior officers were aware of Warwick’s army somewhere close. It could not be a triumphal march in those circumstances, and neither could they allow Margaret and King Henry to ride in the first ranks, where an ambush of archers might bring them down in a heartbeat. Somerset had his best-armoured soldiers in rows all around the king and queen. He made no plans for the marching Scots, but they were there too, loping on bare-legged, with various weapons. Those bearded men stared with unabashed interest at the pale king they had rescued, commenting to each other in their own strange tongue. The mood was light as a summer fair, and the men strolled along with laughter and occasional song as they ate the miles and the road to London.
9
The army that approached London along the raised road had become almost a parade or a Royal Progress. Merchants and travellers were forced to drag their carts off the road and on to marshy ground as armoured knights rode past them four abreast, with banners fluttering on pikes above their heads. Farmers and traders stood with bowed heads and their caps pressed into their chests when they heard it was the king and queen returning at last. Some of them cheered in the wind and cold, while they all gazed on Henry and Margaret as if to fix them in their memories for ever.
It was true the royal banners were worn and mud-spattered. They had been kept folded in chests for the best part of a year and denied a decent airing. The men who bore them were ragged enough themselves, after so long on the road, but they raised their heads at the sight of the massive London walls ahead, with a blare of warning horns sounding over the city to signal their approach. London had seen riots and invasion over the previous year, with the Tower breached and cannon used in the streets against its own people. For over a decade, the house of York had threatened and schemed against the rightful king.
All that was behind. Margaret could feel it in the clean winter air. The city might smell of rot and open sewers in the warm months, but the wind blowing into her face brought scents of wood and plaster, brick and smoke and salted meat. She could not help recalling her first sight of the city, when she had been fresh from France. They had carried her on a litter then, made to halt on London Bridge while the city cheered and hollered and the aldermen bowed in colourful robes. It had overwhelmed her, that girl of fifteen who had not known there could be so many people in the world.
Margaret felt her pulse quicken as Somerset eased his horse beside her so that they rode together. They had not spoken since Henry’s return, though the young duke was always close, ready to advise or receive orders. Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, rode in the rank behind the queen, with Edward, Prince of Wales. Margaret wondered if Lord Percy would be thinking of his father and brother, lost to the years of battles and bloodshed. Perhaps it was a chance for them all to put such family tragedies behind them. After all, she had won. For all the trials and travails, her husband was yet the anointed king of England, true and alive and once more in her grasp. Margaret had learned a great deal since her first sight of London.
The road from St Albans led directly to the Bishop’s Gate, in parallel with another road to Moorgate, just a few hundred yards along the wall. It had been King Henry’s only contribution during the ride. When Somerset had asked the queen which approach he should choose to enter the city, some spark of memory had made the king look up, just for a moment.
‘I would enter through my father’s gate,’ he had said, shyly.
That was Moorgate, cut into the massive Roman wall before Henry had even been born, as the roads north became congested with carts and crowds, worse every year. Without a word, Somerset had sent fresh orders ahead and the front ranks had crossed to the Moorgate road, which rose six feet above ground so soft in places it could trap a horse and rider. That road had been built with London taxes and it was well maintained and dry underfoot, even in winter. They made good time as Moorgate loomed ahead.
The London wall was manned with soldiers from the city garrison. Margaret could see their darker outlines from half a mile away. She had left and returned to London many times over the years, to and from Kenilworth Castle, her private refuge in the bleakest times. She could not remember a single occasion when the gates had been shut before sunset, as they clearly were on that day. A frown appeared on her brow and she looked aside to the lords riding around her, waiting for one of them to react or remark.
It was Somerset who took responsibility, sending men forward up the line and easing back the pace for the rest. Those he sent ahead went with his stinging orders in their ears, furious that some fool had closed the city gates against the king. Margaret craned in the saddle, seeing the messengers gesticulate in the shadow of the wall. Men above leaned down to them and she blinked in confusion as the huge mass of iron and oak remained closed. The royal army could not slow much more. Margaret watched in growing anger as Somerset’s messengers returned and blurted out their surprise. They were bright red in the face, the queen could see that much. Something of the same colour came to Somerset as he liste
ned and guided his horse over to her. Before he reached the queen, the duke ordered all ranks to halt.
Barely a hundred yards of road lay between the front rank and the London wall, but the massive gates remained closed.
Edward of York pulled his cloak tighter around him, already irritated. He was being called back to his responsibilities; he could sense it like a noose around his throat. He’d felt the first touch of the thing when his father’s chief steward had tracked him down in Wales, waiting patiently for three days while Edward roared and cursed him to hell. Hugh Poucher was a white-haired Lincolnshire man who must have been the wrong side of sixty, though it was impossible to be certain. The wiry steward maintained an expression of deep irritation, almost pain, as if he were working a wasp along his gums and would one day spit the foul thing out. Poucher had weathered the storms of Edward’s rages in contemptuous silence until the young giant had finally agreed to listen to him.
His father’s title meant dozens of estates had come to Edward, with staff and tenants numbering many hundreds, or even thousands. His father had kept a close eye on those holdings, and the men who ran them understood perfectly the limits of their own authority – and would not move one step beyond for fear of losing their livelihoods. It was work Edward did not desire or care for, though he appreciated the bag of gold noble coins Poucher had brought with him.
With his father’s man came duty, squeezing his chest and wrapping him up in all the smothering laws and rules and reasons to be sober. Edward could have sent Poucher away, of course. He’d come close to it when he realized the man had assembled a staff of clerks from the nearest estates to assist and educate their young master. That coterie of scribes now accompanied Edward wherever he rode, all ink-fingers and scrolls bound in leather and wax. There was always more for Edward to read, no matter how often he stormed off with his mastiff and some of the rougher knights to hunt for a few days. When he did agree, without fail his thoughts would wander as he read, most often to his father and his brother Edmund.
Edward had seen spiked heads before, many times. It was no great stretch of the imagination to picture his father soft and rotting on the walls of York. Edward had almost three thousand men with him, and York was in reach. There were times, out hunting, when he found he had drifted into range of that city and he would wonder whether he could just lunge for the wall, or whether it would be a trap and they would catch him. In his private thoughts, he sometimes wished Richard Neville were there. He too had lost his father to the queen’s vengeance. Warwick would know what to do.
On some mornings, Edward woke filled with determination to storm York and take back his father’s head. By the time he had emptied his bladder and broken his fast and sworn at Hugh Poucher for bringing him fresh accounts to look through, the dread had returned. Richard of York had been both clever and powerful, but it was his head that gaped down from stone walls. His father’s death had stolen a great deal of Edward’s brash confidence, for all he struggled to hide the loss with rudeness and bad temper. He knew the men walked warily around him and it was his own fear that drove him, yet he only made it worse with every forced attempt at friendship, followed by kicking over tables or drunkenly knocking out one fellow with a single blow.
The path to the manor house was long, so that Edward’s knights made a solid column three abreast. The grounds were well kept and had been trimmed right back for winter, every tree and bush still showing the white marks of ruthless pruning. His father’s voice returned to him then, murmuring the ancient garden lore that ‘Growth follows the knife’. Edward wondered if she would even be there, or whether she might have moved to another house and shuttered this one.
Elizabeth was another regular object of his wandering thoughts, most often when he was warm and his senses were pleasantly blurred in drink. He would remember those heavy-lidded eyes then, watching him. When he recalled their first meeting, he always caught her when she fell, until he almost believed he had. It was surprising how often he thought of it.
The house was wood-beamed and solid-looking, the home of a knight with a good family name but perhaps no great fortune. It had taken long enough to find the place, even with the pretence of returning a dog to its master. Edward dismounted as long-dead leaves spun around the stone courtyard before the main door. His men either dropped down with him or trotted out around to check their surroundings. They had not been given orders to do so, but they knew his rages well enough by then and worked hard to avoid them.
The main door led to an inner courtyard, visible through a grille. Edward had to bash his mailed glove on the wood before a servant came running to answer him, the first sign of life he had seen in that place. The old man took one glance at the white-rose crests and shields of York and could not do enough, calling for his mistress and struggling with great iron bolts to open the door.
By the time the quivering ancient had them all worked free, the woman was there. Her hair was no longer tangled and torn, nor trailing leaves and skeins of spiderweb. The change suited her, and Edward realized there truly was a touch of red in her dark-gold hair. It seemed to have more colours than he could possibly name and her eyes too were almost a red-brown. Her figure was full and her waist …
‘Have you brought my dog back?’ she said, tiring of this silent scrutiny. ‘The one you stole?’
The door had swung open, so that there was no longer anything between them. Edward stepped forward and wrapped his hand around her waist. He had planned for such a moment, in his dreams and daylight fantasies. He drew her in and pressed his second hand behind her shoulder blades, bending her back as he leaned. She was rigid as he kissed her, clashing their teeth together, so that they both winced. In the courtyard behind, a child began to cry. Edward released her and Elizabeth Grey stood in blushing shock, touching her hand to her lips as if she expected a smear of blood.
‘You are … the most boorish man I have ever known,’ she said.
He could see there was a brightness to her eyes, despite the shocked tone. He had sensed a softness in her mouth and, with some smug satisfaction, he noted a spreading flush on her skin. It was something weak men, shorter men, would never know, he thought cheerfully. They would never truly understand a beautiful woman without that knowledge. Those dogs might whinge and complain, or ape his manner, or even call him a rogue or a devil, but Edward saw her interest in him and he knew it was real. He stood and drank her in for a long moment.
When he did not reply, Elizabeth looked past him to where her dog was being held lightly on a rope. She whistled and the animal almost dragged its handler to her side. Certainly the man had no choice in the matter. Edward turned to watch the bounding, lunging mastiff and narrowed his eyes.
‘If he comes so easily, why did you let me leave with him before?’
‘I was dazed from a fall. There was a great rude oaf who did not catch me, if you recall.’
‘You hoped to see me again,’ he said, smiling wickedly.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
‘I did not. I thought you might become as violent as you look if I called him back.’
Edward snorted. He made no attempt to hide his emotions, letting them play across his face with the disarming honesty of a child.
‘I am a violent man, my lady. I have been so and will be again. Not to you, though. When I think of you, I am softer.’
‘No good to me, then, Edward of York.’
He blinked at that, his mouth working in confusion as his colour deepened.
‘No good … sorry, you … what?’
The baby wailed again and she lost the wry smile that had widened her mouth on one side.
‘I am called away, Edward.’
‘My name is in my banners,’ he said. ‘I know yours too, Elizabeth Grey.’
‘Yes, that is my name now. Grey wife and mother.’
She stared up at him for a long time, her eyes calm as she made a decision without hurry. Her husband was a decent man, but he had never made her shudder
with desire the way the ox had done with just one clumsy embrace. She blushed hard at her own flirting.
‘Come and see me again, Edward. Without your men, perhaps.’
Before he could do more than stare at her, she had turned in a swirl of skirts and was gone. The old man who had opened the door looked in reverent admiration at Edward, then found his boots equally fascinating for a time.
‘Shall I, um … take the dog in, my lord? My mistress did not say, in the end.’
‘What? Oh.’
Edward looked down at the black-and-white mastiff, who had chosen to lie on its back and kick at the air with one back leg, showing no sign of worry whatsoever. The dog was watching him, he noticed.
Edward sighed. When the door had closed on Elizabeth, he’d felt something alter inside himself, something drawing tight that he had not known was still flapping loose. His father’s responsibilities had been a burden at first. Now something had been sealed or tied down within and that was no longer true. There were things he had to do, that no one else could do for him. They were his responsibility, and he realized he felt not the weight but the strength needed to bear them. He understood suddenly that the strength came from the burden. It was a revelation.
For the first time he could remember, he felt a prickling of guilt at something he had done. It did not matter that Elizabeth had given every sign she accepted him. Pressing his suit on a married woman was in the same camp as drinking himself blind, or fighting bare-fisted with the blacksmiths until they were all too wounded to stand. Edward groaned almost inaudibly, raising his head and breathing hard. He saw himself as a child running from what he needed to do, and he was ashamed.
He glanced to the south, past the house and the trees, imagining Queen Margaret and all her noble lords raising wine cups and congratulating themselves on their victories. He was still tugged in two, called south to demand a reckoning and yet held in the north by the thought of his father’s humiliation. Spring was on the way. How could he leave the north, with his father’s head? How could he not, with his enemies still alive?
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