Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors (21 page)

Exeter’s whip-crack of a voice choked off as Lord Montagu stepped in between him and Warwick.

‘You keep using my family’s name,’ John Neville said. ‘Are you speaking to my brother, Earl Warwick? Or to me? I can’t tell if this familiar tone is just rudeness, or a man who doesn’t know when to hold his tongue. I can do that for you, if you wish.’ He leaned much closer, until Exeter could feel the bristles of the man’s beard against his chin. ‘I can hold that tongue for you.’

Exeter’s high colour deepened. He squinted at the younger Neville lord, eyeing his scars.

‘I am not at fault, my lords,’ he said, leaning back. ‘We missed a chance to break Edward’s neck – aye, and those of his brothers. We had the men, the position. Yet he slips past and leaves us holding our cocks.’ He looked around the room in appeal. Earl Oxford dipped and raised his head deliberately. Montagu and Warwick looked on as if carved of stone, giving him nothing. Even so, Exeter continued, emboldened.

‘My lords, I do not cry foul, or treachery, though some will wonder why we did not crush the sons of York between us when we had them here, outnumbered! That will be for a
judge and for Parliament to discern, I do not doubt.’ He shot Warwick a glance then, a promise of future malice.

Oxford cleared his throat to speak.

‘Whatever the truth of that, it is clear enough to me now that
Exeter
should command,’ Oxford said into the silence. ‘He has the rank and the authority over the men. Nor is he … tainted by this disaster. No suspicion falls on to him and therefore …’ Warwick shifted as if he might speak and Earl Oxford held up a warning hand. ‘Therefore he should raise his banners over all the rest. The men will trust a duke and we cannot delay here any longer. In truth, we should already be on the road to London.’

‘And would have been, if not for your demand for this extraordinary meeting,’ Warwick replied. For all he recognized it had been his vital hesitation that had allowed the men of York to escape, he would not move an inch for a fool like Exeter, nor his weak-chinned friend.

‘I believe I command still, my lords,’ Warwick said. ‘For good or ill. With authority granted by King Henry’s seal and the approval of Parliament. I do not see any power here to remove me from my duties. Am I mistaken? That being so, I have no
choice
but to go on. Do not mutter at me, Oxford!’ His voice had risen into a sudden bark as the Earl of Oxford made an unwise sound. Warwick glared at him for a moment, until it was clear the man would not voice a complaint.

‘Lacking any legal authority to replace me, I must continue to fly my banners.’

‘You could step down,’ Exeter said, his eyes cold. Warwick shook his head.

‘I have given my oath! I cannot break it merely because other men stand in disapproval of my actions! Am I a milkmaid to run in tears from the rebukes of others? No, my lord. I remain in command, with the blessing of King Henry.
I cannot lay the burden down and keep my soul. That is all there is – and you may do as you please.’

‘You are releasing me from my duty, my oath?’ Exeter said quickly.

Warwick smiled.

‘Oh no, Holland. You gave your word to follow whomever the king placed in command, in peril of your soul. You risk damnation even by raising the
idea
to me, as if there is some interpretation that will allow you to withdraw. There is not. Is that understood, Holland? Is that perfectly clear, my lord Exeter?’

Exeter looked again to Oxford for support, but the man kept his head down and refused to look up. Henry Holland’s mouth tightened, his cheeks drawing back in lines.

‘You leave me no choice, my lord,’ he said.

‘How dare you, Holland!’ Warwick snapped, surprising them all. ‘What I leave you with is not your concern. Your
oath
is your concern! Do not take that begrudging tone with me! Stand, if you would stand. Leave if you would burn.
There
is your choice.’

Warwick waited until the younger man finally lost some of the stubborn resistance in his face. A subtle tension went out of Henry Holland and he bowed from the waist.

‘I remain at your command, my lord Warwick,’ he said quietly. To his surprise, Warwick came forward and clapped him on the back, startling them all.

‘I am pleased, Henry. Your word is intact, for all our differences. What I have done in error is my concern. That is for me to answer, but I am relieved you did not break your oath and damn yourself.’ Once more he patted the duke on his back, like a favourite hound.

‘In truth, I am in agreement,’ Warwick said, surprising Exeter further. ‘We have twenty-four thousand men, all
ready to march. London and King Henry are under threat of a usurping house. We should already be on the road, as I said, not risking our souls here. My lords, I give you my oath now, sworn on Mary, the Mother of God, sworn on the honour of my family line. I will stand against York, when we meet again. If I have been in error in the past, I will wash it clean then. That is my word to you, by Christ Our Lord, amen!
Amen!
’

The last word was enough of a bellow to make Exeter step back, still caught up in swift-changing emotions that he could hardly follow. He seized on the last of it and brightened.

‘To London then?’

‘With all we have, my lord,’ Warwick replied, showing his teeth. ‘We will end it there, with the whole world watching.’

Edward of York pushed open the door to King Henry’s private rooms in Westminster. In the darkness outside, London’s lights gleamed. He and his brother Richard brought a smell of iron and the sound of jingling mail into that quiet space.

Henry lay pale on his bed, the sheet fallen away from his chest so that they could see blue veins and the lines of his ribs. His hair was wet with perspiration and his eyes were reddened and half open. As the breath of colder air reached him from the outside, the king began to struggle to sit up.

The noise woke the only other occupant of the room, who had been snoring at the foot of the bed with his legs sprawled and crossed, in the comfort of a wide, stuffed chair. Derry Brewer startled awake and looked blearily at the two men standing by the open door. A shadow crossed his face then and he reached for his stick with hands that had grown heavy-knuckled and gnarled. The king’s spymaster was sixty-three years old and he grunted as he sat up and leaned on his blackthorn.

Edward crossed the room on light steps, padding in with his brother at his shoulder. Derry watched them come and his eyes were bleak.

‘He isn’t well enough to be moved,’ Derry said. He had known his voice would draw their attention, the two sons of York turning on him as wolves on prey. Before either of them could reply, Henry spoke from where he lay, his voice weak and as high as a child’s.

‘Cousin York! Thank God you’ve come. I know it will all be well now.’

Derry raised one hand to his mouth in grief to hear Henry’s trust. The spymaster thought of the blade hidden in his stick as Edward leaned in to take the king’s hand in greeting, showing a pale throat. Derry might have moved, but Richard of Gloucester was watching him still. The young man pressed a stronger hand over his own and moved him away from the king, lifting his weight from the chair as if it was nothing. Derry found himself gripped so tightly he could hardly breathe as he was half walked, half dragged out of the room. The door closed behind him.

He found his voice was rough with grief.

‘You don’t have to kill him,’ he said. ‘You just don’t. Please, son. Put him in a monastery somewhere far off. He won’t trouble you again.’

‘Ah,’ Richard said, his voice gentle. ‘You love him.’ He looked aside for a moment, then shrugged. ‘You don’t need to fear for Henry of Lancaster tonight, Master Brewer. We won’t kill him, while his son might land in England any fine morning. My brother and I have come to make an ending, not raise another king on the coast. There’s Earl Warwick too, with his great host. We might need a hostage for safe passage there. No, Master Brewer, Henry has nothing to fear from my brother tonight, or from me.
You
though – you’re done.’

Still holding the king’s spymaster in a young man’s hard grip, Richard of Gloucester prodded him down another flight of stairs and out to the empty yard beyond. The Palace of Westminster had enough lamps lit above to lend a golden gleam to part of that square, with the great Abbey lying across from it in darkness.

Derry looked around at the waiting men-at-arms, standing silently as they watched him with cold indifference. There would be no help for him there. He slumped, leaning on his stick.

‘I lost a daughter and a wife when I was very young,’ Derry said, looking up at the clear night sky. ‘And some good friends, son. I hope I’ll see them again.’ For an instant, he turned his single eye on Richard and smiled, looking almost boyish. ‘I remember your father. He was an arrogant whoreson but still, twice the man you are. I hope you get what you deserve, crookback.’

Richard of Gloucester nodded to his captain, making a sharp gesture. The man stepped in and Derry looked up into the darkness, marvelling at the sheer beauty of the stars above. He made a soft grunt as the man struck him, then sank down, coughing once as he died. The cane fell from his fingers and rolled with a clatter that was the only sound.

Elizabeth felt a pang of terror at the noise of armoured men approaching. For months, she had suffered with that particular nightmare, risen like a white spark in her chest every time a grocer or a priest came to Sanctuary. Every time she heard a strange voice or a tiny bell rang, a great, dark fear would come that it was Lancaster or some lord, come to slaughter her children and herself. She dreamed of blood, spilling black across the floor.

She heard the true clatter of knights in iron and sprang awake, her heart thumping in the darkness. There were always one or two monks in the tiny cells of Sanctuary. She had grown to know them all well in the months of confinement. She recognized Brother Paul’s tone and then a yell and a crash that had her reaching for her night robe and fumbling with its belt in the darkness.

She slept alone and could hear the wet nurse, Jenny, stirring in the next room along the corridor. Her mother, Jacquetta, was already moving about and appeared with a lamp and her hair in a great pile of sleep-creased curls.

Wordlessly, Elizabeth showed her the long knife she had snatched up. Jacquetta vanished back into her room, returning with a poker from the fireplace. The two women went to the top of the wooden stairs, shushing Jenny when she too came out, pressing her back into her room with their hands. Further along the floor, one of the girls began to wail. The crying would surely wake the old lady who looked after them and she was actually quite deaf, so that when she called out,
she woke the rest of the house. Elizabeth bit her lip in fear as she edged to the top step and crouched to peer down into the tiny entrance hall.

Brother Paul lay crumpled against the wall, unconscious or dead, she did not know. Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath and then some part of her realized she knew the man standing over him with his back to her. She watched Edward turn in silence, though there had to have been noise.

Her husband looked up to where she stared down through the banisters and his face split into a great beam and shout. Elizabeth matched him, giving a cry of relief, though she felt as if she might faint and tumble right down the steps. She swayed as she tried to stand and felt her mother’s hands on her waist, guiding her away from the fall.

Edward came bounding up the stairs, peering at his wife in pride.

‘I have woken you,’ he said, laughing. Elizabeth snatched frantically at her thoughts.

‘Edward, I don’t … Is it over then?’ she asked. To her confusion, her giant of a husband shook his head, though he still grinned.

‘No, love. Though this is a part of it. Yet London is mine at least – and I can take you out of this place. That is enough for tonight, isn’t it? Now where is my son, Elizabeth?’

‘I named him Edward,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Jenny! Bring me the baby. And he was baptized in the Abbey.’

The wet nurse came out in triumph, the bundled prince held high in her arms. To her credit, the young woman looked to Elizabeth first for permission. Elizabeth nodded, pressing down the sense of grievance that her husband had not even embraced her, though he would hold his son.

Unaware of his wife’s disappointment, Edward raised the
boy into the air, staring up at his tiny, crumpled face in delight or awe. He had never seen his son before that moment.

‘Light, girl!’ he said to the wet nurse. ‘Bring that lamp closer would you? More light here, that I may see my son. Hello, boy. Edward, Prince of Wales, who will be king of England. By God, Elizabeth, I am glad to see him whole. King Henry is returned to the Tower – and I have my wife and my son.’

‘And your girls,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Your three daughters.’

‘Of course, love! Have them brought out to me. I will squeeze them pink and tell them how much I have missed them all.’ Edward had noticed his wife’s growing irritation. He tried not to let it annoy him in turn, but she managed it even so, with her stiff face and wide eyes that he knew would mean an argument. He glanced at his brother Richard on the floor below, watching the happy reunion with a dark expression. Neither of them could remember when they had last slept. Dawn was close and Richard had seen enough of violence and striving, at least for a time. He wanted to sleep.

‘You’ll come back with me, across the road,’ Edward said to his wife. ‘I had Henry put out of his rooms there.’

‘You went to him first? With me still a prisoner in this cold place?’ Elizabeth demanded. Edward’s temper snapped suddenly, too tired to wheedle and flatter his wife. His eyes grew cold and he passed his son back to the nurse hovering at his elbow.

‘I did as I saw fit, Elizabeth! By God, why must you … ? No. I am too weary to argue with you. Have the girls brought out to me and then my men will walk you all across to the palace. You’ll sleep in a better bed tonight.’

He made no mention of joining her and Elizabeth only nodded, coldly furious for reasons she did not have words to
explain. She had longed to see him for an age. There he was, looking slim and younger again, but caring only to see his son, as if he had not missed his wife at all. She had not thought he could hurt her so deeply.

Their three daughters came rushing out to cling to their father’s legs and look adoringly up at him. The sight of their delighted tears went some way to cheer Edward up. Still he yawned and felt sick with tiredness, as if he could just lie down and pass out.

‘Yes, I am pleased as well, to see you. Yes, all of you, of course! How pretty you have grown! Now girls, yes, I must go ahead for a little while.’

The two youngest began to snivel at the merest suggestion their father would not remain with them. Edward gestured sharply to the nurse who had followed them out and still stood, beaming toothlessly at her young charges. Catching his eye, the woman dropped her beatific smile and gathered his children into her skirts.

‘Come along, dears,’ she said, making a clucking sound in her throat. The wet nurse, Jenny, dropped into a curtsey, then she too went to pack, the Prince of Wales in her arms.

Edward stood uncomfortably then with his wife, all the bustle and noise that had centred around his arrival dying away. At the door below, Brother Paul began to stir, a livid bruise showing where he had been knocked cold. Edward looked down without apology as the monk rose to his feet.

‘You have my thanks,’ he said, flipping a gold coin down the flight of stairs. Brother Paul’s eyes never left his as it arced through the air and fell to the stones with a dull sound.

Edward snorted in exasperation, almost too tired to stand.

‘I’ll leave a dozen guards here. Come over when you have the children ready.’

‘Yes, Edward. I will,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘I’ll find you in your rooms.’

Edward went more heavily down the stairs than he had come up them. He had to duck his head to pass beneath the lintel of the Sanctuary fortress. Perhaps because of that action, he paused on the threshold and stepped back inside alone. Edward came up the flight of steps again to embrace his wife, holding her tight enough to choke against his shoulder. To her surprise, she began to weep and he was smiling as he pulled back and kissed her. He removed his gauntlet, revealing a hand dark with oil and grime, a hand more suited to a killing blow than anything more gentle. Yet she did not flinch as he eased away a tear from her cheek.

‘There, love,’ he said. ‘I am home and all is well, isn’t it?’

‘Not if you have to fight again, Edward,’ she said. He looked away then.

‘I do. I need to be a burning brand now, just for a time. There’ll be peace afterwards, I promise.’

She looked into Edward’s eyes and saw the determination there. Despite herself, despite knowing his enmity was not aimed at her, she shivered still.

Edward woke from dark dreams, finding himself slippery with sleep-sweat, as if he had fought or run for an hour. He knew he lay sprawled across the very bed where he had spoken to Henry the night before. He had no memory of collapsing into it, with his armour half off and the rest digging into him. The sun was either still rising or falling, he did not know. It would not have surprised him to have slept the entire day, the way he’d been feeling, but he was still tired. He scratched himself then and winced. He also stank so powerfully he began to consider having a bath filled.

He looked up at the sound of shuffling feet, catching a
glimpse of a servant ducking back out of sight. Edward groaned and lay back. Was he sickening with some illness? His head was clear, his stomach empty. He had not touched grapes, hops or grain since taking his oath in exile, just as he had promised his brother. Like Samson and his long hair, the oath had become a talisman to him and he would not break it at that moment, not with Warwick and Montagu and Oxford and Exeter still to face, all with blood in their eyes. He sat up at the thought that he had Parliament under his thumb then. He could send orders to have the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk freed. Every day would secure his position and lessen that of Warwick – except for one weakness.

Margaret of Anjou would land, with her son. The whole country seemed to know it was coming, though not one of them could say when or where she would touch her dainty foot to English soil. Edward knew he could not ignore the mother or her son. Margaret had rescued her husband before. With Warwick’s army, her landing could become a mighty rebellion of the south, great enough even to break London’s walls.

He raised his head at the steps of a steward. The man went down on one knee at the far end of the room, his head bowed.

‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘Lords Gloucester and Clarence await your pleasure in the audience room.’

‘Or were too impatient to wait,’ Richard said behind him as they entered, ‘one or the other, surely.’ The steward rose to his feet in confusion, but Edward waved him off.

‘Is it morning, or evening – or the next morning?’ he said blearily.

‘It is Good Friday morning, Brother, a few hours after I saw you last. Were you dreaming then? I hope you found a little rest to restore your humours, because I have news.’

‘I am sharp set, I know that much,’ Edward said, yawning. ‘There are kitchens here. Have something sent to me before I am worn down to a shadow.’

He smiled at his brothers as he spoke, then stood and stretched like a mastiff, pulling off the shoulder plate he had not managed the night before.

‘That damned thing was digging into me. I did dream – of a spear shoved in right there.’

Richard shook his head.

‘Do not say such things, Brother. Not today, when Christ suffered the same wound. Shall I wait then, for you to dress and eat?’

Edward sighed.

‘No. Very well, tell me. Did King Henry die in the night?’

Richard raised his eyebrows and Edward chuckled.

‘What else would bring you rushing over to wake me?’ He looked from one brother to another. ‘Well?’

‘Warwick’s army has been sighted, Edward, coming south. They will reach London late tomorrow evening.’

Edward looked down for a moment, thinking.

‘That is a little slow. I wonder if he delayed to gather siege cannon. That must be it. My old friend loves the long guns, do you remember? He always put too much faith in them, instead of the men he commanded. He expects me to hide behind the walls of this fair city.’

He raised his head then, his eyes clear and a smile spreading. Richard grinned at the man his brother had become, so much more a threat than the great pale pudding he had been before.

‘And you won’t,’ Richard said.

‘No, Brother.
I won’t
. I will go out to
meet
him. You will command my right wing, my vanguard. I will hold the centre and you, George …’ There he leaned to one side to observe
his brother. ‘If you wish it, you will command my left wing. It is an honour, George. Are you up to it?’

‘You have what, ten thousand?’ George of Clarence said faintly. Edward could see a line of bright perspiration had appeared along his hairline. He wanted to take pity on the man, but he had not yet recovered his patience with his weak-spittle brother. That particular betrayal had hurt him, sharp and worse and more deeply than Warwick’s own.

‘I’ll find a few brave lads in London before I go, George, don’t worry! I’ll have myself crowned once more in St Paul’s, where the crowds can see. You’ll get some fine fellows then to stand with you.’

George of Clarence swallowed, raising his hand as if to give a blessing, though it trembled. He could see a mad, wild mood in his brothers, and in that moment he was certain it would lead to the destruction of them all.

‘Edward, I
told
you, Warwick has two or three times as many. No one knows the true number beyond his paymaster and Warwick himself. Is it …’ A horrible thought struck him and his voice became strained. ‘Is it that you don’t believe the numbers I have told you? I have apologized for breaking my word. I will redeem it in time, as I have promised. Yet I did begin by joining you at Coventry. I brought three thousand men raised from
my
villages and towns – equipped and fed by
my
funds. Will you deny me even so?’

Edward looked stonily at him and George could not bear that cool appraisal.

‘If you can’t trust me, trust what I told you! It was no exaggeration! I swear by the Rood of Christ that Warwick has as many as I have said. A host, Edward, a
host
, well armed and hardened. He …’

‘Brother, I believe you,’ Edward said. ‘I never thought you would lie over such a thing – how could you, even, when a
falsehood would be revealed the moment our enemies took the field against us? No, I accept that Warwick and his allies have an army greater than ours.’ He looked aside at Richard then and Gloucester nodded. Clarence felt his eyes snap back and forth, once again with the sense of having missed some previous communication.

‘What?’ George demanded. Edward shrugged.

‘I do not deny Warwick’s numbers, George. But I have decided to attack him anyway. I will throw myself at his throat – and I will win … or I will lose.’

‘Against so many?’ George retorted. ‘You
cannot
win!’

‘We’ll see, Brother,’ Edward said darkly, growing angry. ‘Either way, I will take our people out to them. I will stand in Warwick’s way.’