Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (10 page)

The sun rose on new exchanges of letters and furious demands, all ignored by the mayor and his aldermen. As chief magistrate of the city, the mayor was well versed in law and tradition. Yet he had no right at all to refuse the king entry and Derry suspected the man regretted allowing an impossible position to develop. As things stood, even if the nervous crowds inside the walls stood back for the gates to be opened, the mayor’s next and final destination would certainly be the Tower, his life measured in days. The people of London would have a fair idea of the anger they had caused the army and the lords waiting outside. Every hour of waiting made the retribution worse in their imaginations – and kept the gates shut.

In the afternoon, royal heralds rode right up to the massive gates and hammered on the iron with staffs, only to turn away when there was no response. There had been a little food gleaned from local villages like Chelsea, too far from London to have heard of the army before the soldiers turned up to strip their winter stores. Yet even those meagre rations were only enough to feed a few hundred at a time. The vast majority of the fifteen thousand were on a second day without food – and they had been skin and bone before that. By the time the sun set again, the situation had become completely desperate. They were all starving.

On the second night, the gathering around the queen was not so full of energy and bluster as it had been. Hunger was taking a toll on all of them, though Clifford seemed to have eaten well enough, from some private supply he had chosen not to share. Derry swore he could see a smear of grease on the man’s jowls and wanted to strangle him. Tempers were short for them all.

Margaret stood, pacing back and forth three steps at a time as she weighed her choices. Her hair brushed the awning above, so that it sounded like a whispering voice. It was dry at least. That had been their only blessing, though in England, the winter rain would surely come again before long.

‘Gentlemen, my lords. Those who starve have few choices,’ Margaret said.

Derry could see she was clenching one fist in the long sleeve of her dress. The cloth was as marked and dusty as any soldier’s jacket, and the queen was shivering, whether from cold or lack of food, he did not know.

Margaret stopped suddenly to face them all. Her husband was present as the visible symbol of her power, but the truth was that Henry made no difference to her hold on those present. From the bearded glower of Laird Andrew Douglas of the Scots, with his leine and brat wrapped around him, to Somerset, Earl Percy, Clifford, Derry Brewer and all those clustered out in the darkness –
she
had brought them to that field and to that narrow strip of road. It would be Margaret’s decision, and Derry was interested to see how they looked to her like men warming their hands at a fire. Her beauty had something to do with it, of course. Men have always been fools for a fair face. Yet some of those present had known Margaret for half her life – and not one year of that time had been spent in peace. She had been held to a millstone as it spun – and left her blood on it. The struggle had surely hardened her, but that was true for all of them over the years of war.

‘Those who cower behind the city gates are either traitors or fools,’ Margaret said. Her voice was soft and low in that small place. The lords craned in to hear her.
‘Whichever it is, we cannot remain here. The men are falling ill, reduced to bones after such exertions, with no food to keep them hale. It will not be long before we see them begin to die around us. Either that, or Warwick and York will find us, trapped before the walls – and they will come with fire and iron. So. My husband’s orders are for us to march away to the north, to Kenilworth and better lands, but first to towns where we can find food and regain our strength.’

No one argued with the king’s will, as delivered by his queen. Margaret’s eyes were unnaturally bright, as if she burned with a fever or tears. Derry’s heart went out to her in her frustration, even as he felt it himself. They had won! They had come so
close
to safety, only to be left out in the cold and dark.

The days were still short in February. The awning fluttered above their heads and a spattering of rain could be heard, making them all look up. Derry could sense the light fading all around them. It suited the mood of humiliation and weary despair. The orders went out to break camp ready to march at dawn, once more without food to begin the day.

Warwick found it difficult to reconcile the image of Edward in his memory with the bearded giant facing him in a bronze-studded tunic, thick woollen hose and armoured boots. With gruff pleasure, Edward reached out between them. He clapped Warwick’s shoulder with massive gloves, every inch of him thick with dirt and reeking of horse and nights spent on the road.

There was little sign of civilization in the young Duke of York as he reined in, dismounting with an ease and grace that made Warwick feel old at thirty-two. On the ground, they embraced in a brief clasp, preferring to be reserved rather than risk opening a door on grief. The awareness was there, in both of them. The last time they had met, their fathers had been alive.

Around them, York’s smaller army made a camp for their noble captain, a role Edward seemed to relish as he whistled and signalled orders. Warwick could see the black beard and deep-set eyes were well suited to a brigand or the leader of a war band. He did not doubt the young duke was capable of ferocity. The stories of the warrior son of York had already begun to spread, told and retold around a thousand village hearths. No doubt the tales were embellished as they went, but still Warwick found his gaze drawn to the sword Edward kept at his side. Rumour was that it had snapped halfway along its length from the sheer strength of a blow. Some of the stories had it breaking
with a note like a struck bell when the news of his father’s death came in.

‘It does me good to see you,’ Warwick said with dark satisfaction. ‘I give thanks for your deliverance from the Tudors.’

Warwick had to look up as they stood together. It was oddly grating and yet he had not lied. The disastrous rout at St Albans had cost Warwick part of his confidence. His army of eight thousand men had suddenly not seemed enough for the tasks ahead, not with that behind. He knew he had been outfought, but far worse, that he had been outmanoeuvred and made to look a fool. Warwick still burned with it and it did his heart good to see Edward’s three thousand added to his own.

Warwick decided in that instant not to stand on his dignity. It was true Edward was a younger and less experienced man, for all he owned a more senior rank. The young duke would not expect to lead the greater force. By rights, Edward stood in line behind the Duke of Norfolk for any such honour, but Warwick vowed not to humiliate him. There were a hundred ways to do so, but Warwick was determined to include the son of York in all the plans ahead, to honour Edward’s father, but also to train the young man.

The fact that that Edward’s men had won their battle played some part in his decision. It showed in their bearing and the scornful glances they shot to the men of Kent. More than a few scuffles had begun as insults were called back and forth and voices were raised in indignation and surprise. Warwick showed no reaction as his captains jogged over with cudgels to bring a little peace and quiet back to the standing ranks. Sensing scrutiny, he turned his head to find Edward of York watching him.

‘I give you no blame for what happened at Sandal,’ Edward said. His voice was oddly loud, so that Warwick blinked. ‘You could not give your men wings to get there in support – and I know you share my loss. I know your father died with mine, for the same cause and on the same field. Were my father’s words reported to you?’

‘He told the queen she had won no victory,’ Warwick replied, almost in a whisper. He had known Edward first as a thirteen-year-old boy, learning to drink and fight with the English garrison in Calais. There was a disturbing intensity in the hugely muscled warrior facing him with such blue eyes. ‘He said she had only unleashed the sons.’

‘He did,’ York said. ‘He
did
say that, as I’ve heard it from a dozen men who came to tell me of his last moments. And he would have known I’d
hear
him, long past the day of his death. He knew I would hear what he said to me.’ Edward filled his chest in a great gulp of air, blowing it out through his nose. ‘Let us be all unleashed, then, Richard. Before these men who follow us. Let us admit to no rein nor bridle, no curb, nor hand on our arm – until we have taken all we are owed, from all those that owe us.’

As he spoke, Edward felt himself waver between soaring confidence and trembling nerves. His rage at least was clean and could be understood to the edges of it. In the quiet hours, though, he did not know what to say, what to order. At those times, he felt his men must know they followed a painted soldier, a man who felt like a boy, dressed more as an outlaw than a duke. Lost in his own fears, Edward did not see the way they looked to him, the shining pride they took in their own giant.

Under that piercing gaze, Warwick nodded slowly. Edward breathed in relief.

‘We have … what? Twelve thousand between us?’ Warwick said, rubbing the bristles on his jaw. ‘The queen and Somerset and Percy command more, but perhaps it is not too many.’

‘I am the Duke of York,’ Edward said, his brow furrowing at the still-strange sound of the title. ‘As you are Earl Salisbury now. The country towns teem with brawny great smiths and farriers, or grocer boys wanting to hold their heads up in pride. They’ll join us, Richard – if I ask them in my father’s name. If you ask for yours. They’ll come to avenge them. They’ll come for the damned spikes on the walls of York.’

Warwick saw the young man shudder, Edward’s eyes closing over an unpleasant vision before opening again with even more fire and fierceness.

‘The queen will be in London,’ Warwick said.

His neck began to grow pink as he skirted the subject of his lost battle. Edward did not notice, cutting the air with his hand like a cleaver.

‘Then that is where I want to go. You see? It is all simple. Wherever our enemies stand or sleep, there we’ll be. How far to London?’

‘Forty miles, no more. Two days’ march, perhaps, if the men are fed and fit.’

Edward chuckled.

‘Mine won’t fall behind. They’ve walked or run all the way from Wales with me and they’ve brought herds of sheep that were hundreds strong when we set out. We’ve eaten so much pink mutton I don’t think I’ll ever love it again. Your men are welcome to the few dozen we have left, though the animals have grown thin as we grew fat.’

‘My men will be grateful for the gift. More than you
know,’ Warwick said. He felt his mouth fill with warm saliva at the thought.

Edward shook his head, uncaring. His voice was as cold as the day as he went on.

‘I need them strong, Richard. I saw my father treat King Henry and his allies with respect. The result was his head on an iron point. Do you remember how you stayed my hand in the king’s tent last year, with Henry unarmed and helpless? If I could go back to that morning, I would cut his throat and perhaps …’ His voice had been rising as his throat tightened over grief, strangling his words. Warwick waited as Edward’s eyes squeezed closed, leaking tears that vanished into the black bristles on his cheeks. ‘Perhaps I would have saved him then, my father. Perhaps he would live now if I had cut that mewling child when I had … Ah, hell and poxed damnation. There is no going back now, Richard. I can’t recall a single day, or any one of the mistakes I have made. I saw three suns rise, did I tell you that? As true as I am standing here before you, I swear it. In Wales. I could not make even
one
of them go back and return on its course. Not even for my father. God keep his soul. Christ save his soul.’

Warwick held his breath at the rage he saw in York then. The man brimmed over with it, like an oven door half shut.

‘You might find a little comfort in talking to my brother George,’ Warwick said.

He understood that Edward had not had his family around him in Wales, only those who followed his orders, hard and violent men who would have scorned weakness if he’d allowed them to see any. Edward of York had lost a younger brother he’d loved, as well as a father he’d
thought was too strong to fall. Warwick could see the shock in him still.

‘No, I don’t need to talk,’ Edward replied. ‘I need to see Queen Margaret die. I will not turn my other cheek to that white-faced harpy, Richard. Perhaps that means I am not a good man; I don’t know. But I will be a good
son
– and I will be unleashed.’

The queen’s army was a far more subdued force heading north than it had been with London in sight. Men who had laughed and talked now trudged along with their heads down, lean as greyhounds, watching their boots as seams flapped free and had to be bound and rebound in green twine.

On the advice of her lords, the army had swung west, well away from the burned houses and stripped towns on their previous route. Almost from the start, it was extraordinary what a difference it made to have the king with them – that single, visible symbol of the rightness of their cause. They had gone south to rescue God’s anointed sovereign and there he was on a mare’s back, nodding and smiling as crowds gathered to see him.

Even without the king’s Great Seal, prosperous market towns no longer hid their supplies or fought back or barred their gates against them. Moneylenders fell over themselves to lend coins by weight rather than number, wiping sweat from their brows as they watched their entire fortunes depart with the king and queen. With those funds and the craftsmen of the midland cities, the army could be fed and resupplied. Money flowed once again and if there would be a reckoning when the interest came due, it did not seem to trouble Margaret. She had sent Derry out with
a hundred others to negotiate for supplies. The results came in bleating sheep and hissing flocks of geese, far more than she could have believed. For one with silver coins, England was a larder, able to feed them all and a hundred times their number. For the first time in months, her men could bite into thick slices of meat from the spit, feeling their strength return as their stomachs swelled and groaned. They were still too thin, but their eyes were no longer dull. After just a few days of roasts and stews and fish, they had put on weight and muscle. It was a heady feeling to lead such men.

At her own castle of Kenilworth, Margaret halted the army and gave instructions to have the best of meat and equipment brought, whatever they needed. Straggling lines of men filed along to collect some part of the pay they were owed, counted out by serjeants from new cedar chests. Women from the local villages wandered up to earn a few of the coins in a variety of ways. Some of them sewed and mended.

Sunset seemed to come as quickly as it had for months, with the icy ground never softening under the few, precious hours of weak light. Winter was hard and there was no sign of spring on the way. If anything, it was getting colder. The grasses sparkled with dull grey frost each morning and there were days when it did not lift at all.

Margaret stood and watched from a high window, seeing her own little city around Kenilworth in the hundreds of cooking fires. Some of the men were singing, despite the cold. She could not make out the words, but the tune rose and fell almost like the sound of bees. She wondered if she would feel the vibration of their voices if she reached out to the pane of glass.

‘I am almost a mother to them, sometimes,’ she said.

She could sense Somerset’s presence like a weight. He was some years younger than Margaret, lithe and strong and forceful in a way her husband had never been. She wondered if older men and women found one another’s wrinkled flesh attractive, or whether she would always look on firm young muscle and straight shoulders and healthy colour as something fine. One lock of her hair had escaped her clasps and Margaret toyed with it, tilting her head and thinking of a hundred things.

Somerset wasn’t sure how to respond to the idea that Margaret maintained a maternal instinct to kilted Scots and rough, swearing soldiers, so he cleared his throat and untied a leather wrap on a batch of letters.

‘I’m sure they … appreciate your concern, Margaret. How could they not? Now, I have here a demand for indentured men. We do not yet have the Great Seal, which is an obstacle and a nuisance. I imagine it is still in London, or perhaps in the personal baggage of Earl Warwick. Without it, needs must I continue to use my own family crest in wax, with King Henry’s ring and the assurances of the king’s support written into the levy. Even then, the absence of the seal will be noted by some. Margaret, are you certain King Henry will …’ Somerset paused, rubbing a hand from his forehead to his chin in weariness and embarrassment. He hated discussing the king’s thoughts and actions with the queen, as if the man was a wooden doll. ‘Are you certain he will sign the documents? Without his seal, his name will suffice, if he is gracious enough to provide it.’

‘I think so. Henry agreed when I asked him, of course.’ She exchanged the briefest of glances with Somerset at that. Both of them knew that Henry would agree to
anything at all. It was the very heart of his weakness. ‘If I have to, I will sign his name myself.’

Somerset looked shocked and Margaret stepped closer to him, waving a hand.

‘Oh, do not look so appalled, milord! I would not do that – though only because some of his bishops or noblemen might have other papers with his name, much loved and often read. I would not be found out in a lie; otherwise, I would sign my husband’s name and use his seal to do anything.’ She saw Somerset’s discomfort and shook her head in frustration. ‘I would do only what Henry would do – if he were able. Do you understand? My son is the Prince of Wales and will come to rule. The only
obstacle
is the fact that my husband’s capital city closed its gates on him and refused entry to the rightful king! The only
nuisance
is the action of Warwick and York and an army that will not submit to the rightful authority of the king of England!’

She reached out and touched Somerset along the cheek and jaw with her open palm. He did not flinch or look away as her eyes searched him for the strength she needed.

‘I would do
anything
, my lord, to keep this throne now. Do you understand? I have not walked so far along this path only to fall at the last step. I need more men than the souls gathered around this castle. I need twenty thousand,
fifty
thousand, whatever it takes to rid this country of those who pose a threat to my husband and my son – and to me. That is all that matters now. Whatever you ask, I will do.’