Loyalty (24 page)

   James drew his dagger and urged his horse closer to Geoffrey, until their knees were almost touching.

   “You see a great deal,” he said, holding the blade just under Geoffrey’s right eye, “a deal too much.”       

   His eyes narrowed, looking for signs of fear in his prisoner. They were present. Despite his insouciance, Geoffrey was mortally afraid. His breathing was too rapid, and his teeth chattered as James pressed the cold blade against his cheek.

   The dagger plunged, and quickly sawed through the length of cord binding Geoffrey’s wrists.

   “Go, then,” said James, sheathing his blade, “and never let me see your face again this side of eternity.”

   Geoffrey was not the sort to tarry and ask foolish questions. Almost as soon as the cord had fallen from his wrists, he grabbed the reins of his horse and wheeled her about. Taken unawares, the archer sitting behind him was thrown off-balance and tipped unceremoniously out of the saddle.

   “That was unwise, sir,” said his comrade while the fallen man cursed and massaged his bruises, “that gentleman is not the sort to forgive. You should have asked me to slit his throat.”

   “You know nothing about it,” James snapped.

   He watched as the fleeing horseman was quickly swallowed up by darkness, and the echo of galloping hoofbeats faded into the night.

   James’ irritation masked a sense of guilt. He knew that releasing Geoffrey was a mistake, had known it even as he sliced through the cord, but what else could he do? It was pointless to drag him about like a piece of useless baggage, and the infernal man was right. James could not kill in cold blood.

   Putting Geoffrey Malvern out of his mind, at least for the time being, he continued his journey homeward. Two days of fairly hard riding passed without incident, and the morning of the third day saw the three men pass into Staffordshire.   

   James scoured the county in vain for his brother. He thought Martin might have taken up residence again at Heydon Court, but the house stood dark and empty, the gates closed and all the servants fled.

   The sight of his childhood home filled James with sadness and remorse, and he felt duty-bound to visit the grave of his mother at Cromford. He stood awhile before her white marble headstone, wishing that the mistakes of the past could be made good.

   “I am sorry I failed you so often,” he whispered, “I have tried to make amends for my sins. God grant that you can see me now, and think better of me.”

   His father was also buried at Cromford, but James could not bear to look on his tomb. Not until the Yorkists were defeated and driven out of England, and the cause that Edward Bolton had died for had triumphed, would he be able to stand before his father’s tomb without shame.

   From Cromford they rode to Buckleigh House, where James assumed that Kate Malvern was enduring an unspeakably vile marriage with Edmund Ramage. 

   Buckleigh was also deserted, and looked like it had been attacked. The gates were forced open, and the glass in the upper-storey windows smashed. When James led his men inside to explore, they found the rotting corpse of an elderly serving-man lying in the yard. His flesh was putrefying, and swarms of flies crawled and buzzed about his remains.

   “The war has come to Staffordshire,” said James, holding a cloth to his face against the stench, “let us be gone from here.”

   His men looked disappointed. Like all soldiers, they had an eye for plunder, and the house stood open and defenceless.

   “Pick the place clean, if you have a mind to,” James told them, “though I doubt there is much left. Those who were here before us will have carried off anything of value.”

   The archers chose to stay, and James made only a token effort to persuade them otherwise. In truth he was glad to be rid of them. He much preferred to work alone, and now Geoffrey was gone he had no further need of hired muscle.

   On his own again, he made his way to Cromford village, where he hired lodgings for the night at the Plough inn and stabled his tired horse.

   Over supper and a cup of small beer, he pondered his next move. Neither the landlord nor any of the regulars at the inn had seen anything of Martin, though they had heard stories of violence and murder at Buckleigh House.

   “Edmund Ramage is dead,” the innkeeper informed him, “slaughtered in single combat with a huge knight, more a beast than a man. Ramage was a good knight, and some say that his killer was no mortal man at all, but the spirit of…”

   “Of who?” James demanded when the other man hesitated and turned pale.

   “Your pardon, Master Bolton,” the innkeeper stammered, plucking at his greasy neck-cloth, “but the story goes that it was your father’s spirit, returned to avenge himself on his murderer.”

   James held his frightened gaze for a moment. “My father has been a long time about it,” he said quietly, “he has lain quiet in his grave these past twelve years. Is the ghost not more likely to be my brother’s?”

   “Your brother, sir?”   “Yes. Had you not heard? Richard was killed in battle last year. The ranks of the Boltons grow thin. Who knows, perhaps this time next year you will have to seek for new landlords.”

   He left the innkeeper to chew on that prospect and returned to his table.

   For the first time in many years, James was at a loss. His brother had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. Having deserted Warwick’s service, he dared not return. Besides, the earl might well be dead by now. James privately shared Geoffrey’s estimation of Edward of March as a soldier, and knew that Warwick could not hope to beat him in the field.

   “Please God,” he prayed that night in his upstairs bedchamber, “invest the Earl of Warwick and his allies with common sense. Let them shelter behind the walls of Coventry, until the Queen sails from France.”

   France. That seemed his best prospect – indeed, his only one. His sister was there. James chided himself for leaving her and little Elizabeth. When the Queen’s army departed for England, they would have no-one to protect them unless Mary agreed to marry Sir John Dacre. That was unlikely, since the prospect had pleased her so little.

   He spent a fitful night, irked by the fleas that infested his grubby mattress, and rose early, just as dawn sunlight filtered through the shutters. Staying just long enough to pay and swallow a hasty breakfast, he fetched his horse and set off south.

   James’ intention was to make his way to Weymouth or some other southern port, and spend the last of his dwindling reserve of cash on a boat to take him across the Channel.

   He was at a roadside inn, just north of Worcester, when he overheard tidings of the war from a group of merchants seated at a table near his.

   “The Queen is marching on Gloucester,” one said, “she means to cross the Severn into Wales, and gather the bloody Welsh to her banner. Then God help any honest Englishmen east of the border.”

   “Bollocks,” grunted one of his companions, “she is coming here, to Worcester. Which means Jasper Tudor and his Welsh hordes will soon be at our gates. I mean to pack up my wares and be gone by tomorrow.”

   He pointed his eating knife at the rest of the sweaty, red-faced men gathered around the table. “Friends, if you have any sense you will all follow my example. The Queen will let her troops plunder and burn, just as she did before, and we all know what the Welsh are capable of.”

   “Your pardon for the interruption, gentlemen,” James asked politely, “but is it certain that the Queen has landed?”

   They looked at him in pop-eyed disbelief. “Certain?” squawked the first speaker, “as certain as the festering boil on my arse. Her army landed at Weymouth over a fortnight ago. The men of Devon and Cornwall have risen in numbers to join her. It is the talk of the country. Where the hell have you been these past few days, living under a rock?”

   “Something akin to that,” replied James, ignoring the merchant’s insolent tone, “what of the Earl of Warwick? Does he abide at Coventry?”

   The merchants exchanged glances, clearly convinced that James was an idiot. “No,” another of them replied with infinite patience, “he does not. His grace the Earl of Warwick abides nowhere save in Heaven, or perhaps in Hell, depending if Christ holds to Lancaster or York. The Duke of Exeter abides with him, as does his brother the Marquis of Montagu, and many thousands of poor soldiers.”

   It was no less than he feared, but still this struck fear and dismay into James. “So Warwick is beaten,” he said dully, “God rest him. God rest them all.”

   “Aye, defeated. His army was smashed at Barnet. A terrible battle, they say, fought in thick fog. Afterwards the bodies of Warwick and his brother were displayed at Saint Pauls, so there can be no doubt that they are dead.”

   “A canny man, King Edward,” remarked another of the merchants, “I would have done the same. And he knows the value of trade and tradesmen like us. God grant that he beats the Queen and throws her army back into the sea. We don’t want mad Henry back again and his shrew of a French wife.”

   James regarded that as treason, and in another time and place would have said so. He confined himself to making a note of the man’s face and expressing polite thanks for the information.

   A dreadful fear had been creeping over him ever since he discovered Heydon Court empty. The news of Barnet brought it to the fore again.

   What if Martin had returned to London after murdering Ramage – James had little doubt his brother was the culprit – and rejoined Warwick’s army? He would have inevitably fought at Barnet, and might well have been killed there. His body would lie among the heaps of slain. Just like his father at Blore Heath. Just like his brother at Empingham, and his brother-in-law at Towton.

   James almost wept. He couldn’t lose Martin. Only now did he realise how precious his last brother was to him, and to the survival of the family. If Martin had gone, The White Hawk was no more. Heydon Court and the other manors would pass into the hands of the Yorkist king, to be doled out to one of his retainers, and the name of Bolton would fade into the mouldering annals of history.

   He left the inn and urged his horse south at a furious pace, skirting Worcester and following the line of the Severn towards Tewkesbury. The weather was hot, and he almost choked on the dust kicked up by his horse’s hoofs. Still he pressed on, expecting to glimpse banners and the gleam of spear-heads advancing north along the road.

   The merchants at the inn had been misinformed. There was no sign of any Lancastrian troops south of Worcester, and it wasn’t until James neared Gloucester that he obtained any word of the Queen’s army.

   From the guards on the city gates he learned that the Lancastrians had seized Bristol, some thirty miles to the south. The citizens had welcomed them and supplied them with money, men and arms, including a considerable number of cannon.

   That would make up for the guns lost at Barnet, James reflected. His horse was all but spent, so he used the last of his money to part-exchange her for a rouncey from a dealer just inside the city walls.

   James sped south, all his hopes invested in finding that Martin had survived the rout at Barnet and joined the Queen’s army.

   Logic told him that was unlikely, but James was determined to cling onto hope for as long as possible. There was nothing else left to him.

     
Chapter 24

Bristol, 30th April

“Let us march east, find some high ground of our own choosing, and dare the usurper to come at us. Or if not, give me leave to ride out alone and challenge him or any of his champions to settle this war by single combat. I will carve them all like pies!”

   The young Duke of Somerset was in fine voice, and it had dominated much of the council of war held inside the hall of Bristol Castle.

   Queen Margaret fondly patted his cheek. “You are the spit of your father and brother,” she said with a sad smile, “how your family has suffered in my cause. I cannot ask for any more Beaufort blood.”

  “It is yours for the asking!” he cried, grasping her slender hand in both of his and kissing it fiercely, “every last drop, if need be!

   Martin listened to this exchange with alarm. For all his gallantry, Somerset was a brainless firebrand, and his counsel must not be heeded.

   He looked to the veteran Lord Wenlock to offer more sensible advice.Wenlock, however, had still not recovered from the Earl of Warwick’s death. More so than any other Lancastrian, he had placed all his faith in his old comrade. Even now, weeks after Barnet, he said little in council and appeared trapped in a private nightmare.

   Martin had a place of honour at the Queen’s council, on the understanding that he didn’t actually say anything. As a lowly country gentleman, not even a knight, his advice was too unimportant to be heard.

   He owed this dubious privilege to his sister Mary, still warmly regarded by the Queen despite her persistent failure to marry Sir John Dacre, and the favour shown him by Prince Edward.

   The youthful prince had greeted Martin’s arrival at Bristol, travel-stained and weary beyond measure after his fortunate escape from Warwick’s defeat, as a happy miracle.

   “God has preserved you, my dear friend,” Edward had cried, embracing Martin heartily and thumping him on the back, “your coming here is a clear sign that He favours our cause!”