Revenge (11 page)

“Your loyalty shall be rewarded,” Richard promised, “when we are safe in France.”

They hired a Flemish sea-captain from Dondrecht to take them to Boulogne on his cog, the
Waardeburc
, and after a blessedly smooth crossing ventured inland to seek out the army of the Duke of Somerset.

Richard was aware that Somerset had been camped at Guines since the previous winter, from where he mounted constant raids on Calais and outlying districts in an effort to dislodge the Earl of Warwick’s garrison. He knew nothing of the latest situation, and the Flemish captain could tell them nothing for certain.

Fortunately they encountered a crippled English soldier, slumped on a bench outside a tavern in the little town of Marquise, north of Boulogne. He informed them that Somerset was still in place.

“Warwick’s gone, though,” he added. “He and his father sailed weeks ago, taking two thousand men with them. They left a strong garrison in Calais. Too strong for Somerset to root out, try as he may. And he will, because that one doesn’t know when he’s beaten. A lot of good men have died for the sake of the Duke’s pride.”

He plucked at the stump of his left leg, which ended at the knee. “Not me, though,” he said cheerfully. “A cannon-shot ended my soldiering three months ago. I’m better off out of it. Let the Norman bastards tear each other to pieces, I say. Care for a drink, then?”

Richard, whose own family originated from an obscure little village in southern Normandy, thanked him coldly, but said no, they must press on. They left the cripple sitting in the sunshine, happily contemplating his stump and a jug of ale.

They reached Guines to find Somerset still in place, but in desperate straits. The town itself was a damp and depressing place situated in a shallow and marshy valley, its streets swimming in mud from recent heavy downpours. Richard and Mauley gave the place a wide berth and rode straight to the castle, an impressive fortress north-east of the town and separated from it by a wide moat.

The captain of the garrison greeted them at the gate and escorted Richard and Mauley to meet the Duke. Richard’s first impression of Somerset, whom they found at sword-and-buckler exercise in the inner bailey, was of a proud, headstrong and aggressive youth, unsparing of his opponent as they sparred back and forth across the yard.

Somerset was tall and sinewy, with crisp fair hair styled into the unflattering military bowl-cut fashionable among the warrior aristocracy. He was not much older than Richard, and radiated a sense of arrogance and aggression that was the mark of a typical high-born nobleman.

“Reinforcements from England, eh?” were Somerset’s first words when the captain had informed him of the newcomers. He left off sparring, waving at his partner to go away, and ran a cool eye over Richard.

“One poor knight, in rusted harness,” he said, which made Richard blush – Mauley had somewhat neglected his duties as a squire – “and one man-at-arms with grey in his hair and a missing eye. God help us, is this all the Queen could send?”

“Pardon, lord,” said Richard, bowing rather stiffly. “I am no knight, but a gentleman of Staffordshire. I am Richard Bolton and this is my squire, Nicholas Mauley. The Queen did not send us. We came of our own accord.”

Somerset grinned. “Well, then, I should be grateful,” he said. “We have few enough volunteers. Welcome to Guines, Richard Bolton, though you will find little here but short rations and hard service.”

As the cripple at Marquise had said, Somerset’s remaining soldiers were too few to make any impression on Calais. Their numbers were depleted thanks to recent defeats and the death or capture of many of their allies, and morale among the survivors was low, as were food and supplies. A direct assault on the town was impossible, as was a protracted siege, for Warwick had left it too well-defended and supplied.

Richard was condemned to stay inside the castle and chew his nails. After a fortnight of this tedium, he stood up at dinner in the great hall and issued a rash challenge to single combat.

“I will take on any man present,” he declared, swaying slightly, “save His Grace the Duke.”

Sir Andrew Trollope, a vastly experienced soldier and the Duke’s closest confidante, was first to his feet. Trollope was captain of the Calais garrison, the turncoat of Ludford Bridge, and the most famous English soldier in Christendom.

He was an ugly fellow. His head was round as a cannonball, balding and with a neatly trimmed black beard, shrewd little blue eyes, and a much-broken nose that had set at an unfortunate angle. In his drunken state, Richard had forgotten the man was present.

“I accept!” cried Trollope, banging the table with his fist, “and will meet you in the lists tomorrow at dawn.”

“Let us hope your head has cleared sufficiently by then, Bolton,” Somerset said wryly. “I would be sorry to lose a man so soon after his arrival.”

Richard’s head stubbornly refused to clear, thanks to excess of wine and almost total lack of sleep as he shivered and prayed through the night. He had condemned himself to single combat with one of the most dangerous men alive, and could only beg God to see him safe.

The next morning found him in the tiltyard outside Guines Castle. He adjusted the straps of his tilting helm, took the heavy lance from Mauley, and hefted it carefully. He had only ever participated in one formal joust, at Tutbury Castle two summers gone, and was sorely out of practice. His destrier, Gwen, shifted under him and pawed the earth, eager to be off.

“Calm, calm,” he muttered, though he felt anything but. His mouth felt stale and dry, his skull throbbed with the after-effects of the wine that had loosened his tongue the previous night, and his whole body trembled with nervous excitement.

He squinted through the narrow slit of his visor at his opponent at the other end of the lists. Trollope was a small, compact knight, covered in gleaming steel harness. His surcoat displayed his livery of three white stags on a green field. He handled his horse, a big chestnut mare, better than Richard handled Gwen, and had more skill with the lance. Trollope was a renowned champion of the lists, and Richard had never heard of him being discomfited.

The marshal of the lists was one of Somerset’s knights. He raised his white baton and, after a dramatic pause, let it fall to earth. This would usually have been the signal for the crowd to roar as the contending knights drove in their spurs and charged, but the stalls either side of the lists were empty. The only other man present in the tiltyard was Somerset. He stood leaning against a barricade at a safe distance, watching intently as the knights hurtled towards each other.

At the last moment Richard flung his entire weight into the collision, leaning low in the saddle and aiming the tip of his wavering lance at the middle of his opponent’s shield. He gritted his teeth against the pain that was sure to come.

A tremendous shock threw him back against his high cantle, jarring his spine and driving an invisible blade through the scar in his back.

Trollope’s lance had exploded against Richard’s breastplate. The left side of his vision briefly darkened as one of the jagged fragments flew into his visor. By the grace of God it missed his eye, but sliced open his forehead. Blood started to flow hot and fast. Half-blinded and stunned, Richard swayed dangerously in his saddle as Gwen cantered on, slowing to a halt as her master fumbled with his helm.

Richard wrenched the suffocating steel bucket off his head and gratefully sucked in cool, fresh air. The joust had barely lasted a minute, but sweat rolled down his face, mingled with blood pouring from the gash over his eye. Wincing at the pain, he reached up and carefully plucked out the splinter.

The sound of clapping reached him. Somerset was sauntering down the lists, all well-muscled elegance in his short black tunic and red hose, smiling lazily as he applauded.

“Well ridden, Bolton,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Andrew?”

He stopped and glanced up at Richard’s opponent. Trollope tossed away the shattered remnant of his lance and grunted as he heaved off his tilting helm.

“I would indeed, lord,” he replied, panting. “He kept his seat, and came damn near to throwing me off mine.”

That was a lie – Richard’s lance had missed Trollope’s shield by a wide margin – but a good-natured one.

“My thanks,” said Richard, bowing his head, one hand clamped against his wound to staunch the bleeding, “and I apologise if I caused you any offence last night.”

“Not at all,” said Trollope, smiling and displaying a mouthful of broken and rotting teeth. Richard felt elated. He had survived the joust without embarrassment or serious injury, and succeeded in impressing Somerset.

At dinner that evening, when he and Trollope were toasting each other in spiced hippocras, a stranger was brought into the hall by two men of the garrison.

He looked exhausted, white-faced and unshaven with deep pouches under his eyes. His cloak and boots were sodden and travel-stained.

“Who are you?” demanded Somerset, who hated to be disturbed at meat.

The man halted in the middle of the hall, bowed, and went down on one knee. “Thomas Swale, lord Duke, an esquire in the King’s service,” he said heavily. “I have news from England. Dire news, lord, with no means of sugaring it.”

Somerset swallowed and wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “Well? Spit it out, Swale.”

“Three days ago, the Earl of Warwick met the King’s army in battle outside Northampton. The Earl won a complete victory. Over three hundred of our men were slaughtered, killed in the rout or drowned as they tried to cross the River Nene. With my own eyes I saw the Duke of Buckingham slain, along with the Earl of Shrewsbury, and the Lords Egremont and Beaumont. All slain, lord, outside the King’s tent, attempting to defend His Majesty’s person.”

Richard felt a chill steal over him. Every man in the hall was silent. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the muffled growls of a wolfhound as it squatted on the rushes and cracked an ox-bone in its jaws.

Somerset’s handsome face had turned the colour of fresh milk. “What of the King?” he demanded, shoving back his chair. “Has that bastard Warwick murdered him?”

Swale shook his head. “No, lord, thank God. King Henry was taken prisoner to London. Lord Scales still holds the Tower, but has too few men to hold it for long. The Queen and the Prince of Wales have fled to Wales. So far as I know, they have evaded capture.”

Some of the tension in the hall dissipated at the news of the Queen’s escape. Richard glanced at Mauley, who was sitting with a group of men-at-arms at a table near the door. He thought of his brother-in-law Henry, who had gone to Coventry and joined the royal army. Henry would have fought at Northampton.

“How did Warwick gain the battle?” demanded Trollope. “Buckingham was no fool, God rest him, and no mean soldier either.”

Swale looked up, his face grim, to meet Trollope’s gaze. “Lord Grey of Ruthin turned traitor,” he said. “His men laid down their weapons and helped the Yorkists over our defences, causing our right flank to collapse. I am not ashamed to admit that I ran with the rest, and escaped by swimming the river.”

“Edmund Grey!” shouted Somerset. “Edmund Grey betrayed his King on the field?”

“Yes,” replied Swale. “His defection rescued the day for the Yorkists, for otherwise they could never have broken our lines.”

Somerset stood up. He clapped his hands together and stood with eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly.

“We will speak more of this in private,” he said after a moment. “Andrew, you too.”

He strode out, towards the spiral stair that led to his private quarters. Trollope and Swale followed.

It was almost midnight by the time a man-at-arms sought out Richard and Mauley with orders for them to attend the Duke immediately. He escorted them to Somerset’s quarters, where the duke had been closeted for hours.

The room was bare and cheerless, with a cold wind whistling through the arrow-slit windows. “Bolton,” said Somerset, glancing up from the map spread out on the table before him, “you will be pleased to hear I’ve found a use for you. You want to be useful, don’t you?”

“Of course, lord,” Richard replied, doing his best to conceal his trepidation. Somerset struck him as the sort who wouldn’t hesitate to send men into the jaws of death if it suited his purposes.

Somerset nodded and gave his attention back to the map, which showed a detailed outline of the southern coast of England.

“Our cause has suffered a blow, but not a serious one,” he said. “The defeat at Northampton was just a set-back.”

A set-back?
thought Richard.
The King is a prisoner, the Queen and the Prince of Wales fugitives, many of their noble supporters in England dead in the field…along with hundreds of other loyal Lancastrians, including, perhaps, my own brother-in-law.

He kept these thoughts to himself, and maintained a carefully blank expression.

“Warwick may hold London and the south-east,” said Trollope, “but the rest of the country is still loyal to the King. Especially the north, much of Wales and the south-west.”

Richard suspected that was a trifle optimistic, but still he said nothing.

“The Earl of Devon is my friend,” added Somerset, placing his hand flat over that county on the map, “and a devoted supporter of the Crown. His wife, daughter of the Count of Maine, is kinswoman to the Queen. He will never submit to York, or Warwick, or any of their creatures. Have you ever visited the West Country, Bolton?”