Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (13 page)

His problem that frozen morning was that Warwick had sent the ransom for his brother without a word or a delay. The chest of gold coins had arrived in York on a cart, guarded by a dozen armed men. With the vast army around York, they had almost sparked off a minor slaughter as they came into range. Those guards had none of Lord Montagu’s protections, so Derry knew they were being
questioned with iron and flame about their masters. Either way, it meant he would be losing John Neville. It was a simple matter of self-protection for the lords around King Henry and Queen Margaret. If they did not release their noble enemies, they could not expect to be released themselves, if fate went the other way. Before sunset, Montagu would be given a horse and put on the road south. By tradition, he would be given three full days before he could be captured once again.

As Derry had observed before, the king’s spymaster could not be a noble man. There was a well of spite in him that had no sounding, at least when he had the chance. For fifteen years, he had been made to run, to hide, to sweat by York, Salisbury and the Nevilles. It was true he was on the winning side, but that eased his brooding anger not at all.

‘Master Brewer?’

A voice from above interrupted his thoughts, calling down the steps. It was one of the York sheriff’s men, downy-cheeked and stiff with his new responsibilities.

‘Have you freed Lord Montagu? There is a mount for him here … I have …’

The voice trailed away and, without looking up, Derry guessed he was staring into the room and at the sprawled prisoner.

‘Has he fallen ill?’ the officer said.

‘No, he’ll be fine,’ Derry said, still thinking. ‘Give me a few minutes alone, without you breathing down my neck, would you? I’d like to speak to him.’

To his surprise, the young man hesitated.

‘He does not look aware, Master Brewer. Did you strike him?’

‘Is that milk on your mouth, boy?’ Derry snapped. ‘Did
I
strike
him? Go and wait with the horse. Lord Montagu may need a hand to mount. Jesus
Christ
.’

The young man’s face flamed with either anger or humiliation, Derry couldn’t tell. He could almost feel the heat of it recede as he retreated up the stairs. With a sigh, Derry knew the boy would be trotting off to find a senior man. He had only moments and no time for invention.

He took hold of Montagu’s outstretched hand and turned it palm down, folding the fingers into a fist. With quick, deep slashes, he cut a ‘T’ for ‘traitor’ into the flesh. Dark blood rushed to fill the lines, spilling over. Montagu opened his eyes as Derry finished, jerking the hand away from him. The Neville lord was still groggy and clearly no threat as he unlocked the chains. Derry struck him again with the cudgel, so that he fell face-first.

‘Master Brewer?’ came a growling voice from the stairs. ‘You will release the prisoner to me now.’

The sheriff of York was not a young man. Derry imagined the white-haired old stick had seen about everything one fellow could do to another over the years. He certainly didn’t seem surprised by the blood dripping from Montagu’s fist or nose as Derry removed the manacles and dragged the young lord over the flags and straw. He saw the sheriff examining the letter he’d carved.

‘Nice work,’ the old man said with a sniff. ‘Did you addle his brains?’

‘Probably not,’ Derry said, pleased at his calm.

To his astonishment, the old sheriff lunged suddenly at the man in Derry’s arms, chopping a punch into his lower rib. Montagu groaned, his head lolling.

‘He stood against the king. He deserves to have his balls taken,’ the sheriff said.

‘I’m game if you are,’ Derry replied immediately.

He watched the old man consider and sensed Montagu struggling to regain his wits, dimly aware of what they were discussing. Derry readied his cudgel to silence John Neville once again.

‘No, perhaps not,’ the sheriff said reluctantly. ‘It’d be my own if I allowed it. I’ll have him tied to his horse so he don’t fall off. You’ll need to wake him a bit more to sign his name, or I can’t let him go.’

Derry clapped the old man on the back with one hand, sensing a kindred spirit. Together, they heaved Montagu up the stairs, towards the fading light and his freedom restored. The blood from the nobleman’s swinging hand left a trail, as the wounds would leave a scar.

Margaret shivered as the band of Scots regarded her. It was not from fear. Those bearded lads had been loyal – if not to her, then to their own queen. Yet the cold seemed to grow more fierce every day, though Margaret wore cloaks and layers of wool and linen under them, proof against the wind. March had begun and there was still no sign of spring, with the ploughed fields hard as stone. The city of York huddled around fires and ate stews made from the sort of beans that lasted decades and were only brought out when all else had gone. Winter meant death, and she could hardly believe these young men would walk bare-legged into the north once again. A slight shudder crossed her shoulders at the thought of losing four thousand of her army, but she had offered them everything she had. There was nothing left to keep them there.

‘My lady, it has been an
honour
for these boys,’ Laird Andrew Douglas said, through his hedge of black beard,
‘to see how another great lady conducts herself. I will take back the news to our queen – of the destruction of your most powerful enemies and bringing your husband King Henry out of the fell clutches of those who might have hurt him.’

The Douglas nodded to himself in satisfaction and many of the young men on horses or on foot echoed the movement and smiled, proud of what they had achieved.

‘No man could say we have not fulfilled our bargain, my lady. My lads have bled into this land – and in return, you promised Berwick and your wee boy Edward in a union.’

‘Do not lecture me, Andrew,’ Margaret said suddenly. ‘I know what I have done.’ She waited a beat to let the Scottish laird colour in embarrassment, then went on. ‘And I will honour all my promises. I would promise more, my lord, if I thought you would stay. Your men have shown their strength and their loyalty.’

She might have bitten her tongue then, given that the loyalty was all for their own queen, but it was true they had kept their side of the agreements between them – and helped to win back all she had lost.

‘My men have farms to plant in spring, my lady, though it is good to know we are held in high esteem so far to the south.’

Margaret blinked at the idea that York could be considered a southern city to a Scot.

‘And yet we would not leave if you had not half of England coming to take arms for you.’

The Douglas gestured around him to the vast camp by the city, lords and warriors who had streamed in from north, west, south, even the coastal villages, where ships landed and disgorged more men. There had been little
sign of so much support while Henry was a prisoner and Margaret was chased like a spring hare. Now, everything had changed. She dipped her head, showing respect to the laird, who coloured even more deeply. Margaret reached out and took his hand.

‘You have my letters for Queen Mary. They contain my thanks – and I will not forget the part you played, Andrew Douglas. You came when I was lost and in darkness, with not a single lamp to show the path. God’s blessings go with you and keep you safe on the road.’

The laird raised his hand and the captains he took with him cheered, waving caps and spears. Margaret turned slightly as Derry Brewer came to her shoulder to watch them march away.

‘It brings a tear to my eye to see this …’ Derry said. Margaret looked at him in surprise and he raised his eyebrows. ‘When I think of all the things they have stolen, my lady, just walking away with them now, wrapped in their breech-cloths.’

In surprise, Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth as Derry went on, showing his teeth at the pleasure of making her eyes round.

‘They clank as they walk, my lady. I think that bearded laird has Somerset’s dagger and Lord Clifford’s boots, though I would not begrudge him those.’

‘You are a bad man, Derry Brewer. They came to my aid when I had need.’

‘They did, but look at us now,’ he said, raising his head.

Around them, their fifteen thousand men had doubled in number and still more came in. She could afford to dismiss the Scots at last – and if she had not, they would have gone anyway, serving another queen.

In amiable silence, Derry and Margaret watched the marching ranks dwindle into the distance, before the fading light and deepening cold made them both shiver too hard to stand out any longer.

Buffeted by the sound of bells and roaring voices, Edward beamed. Outside, Londoners were surging like bees between the Abbey and the great Palace of Westminster, filling every inch of open ground until they were up on the feet of the columns to catch a glimpse of the new king. He knew they had refused King Henry and his French wife. Perhaps they had been afraid of the city being sacked, but the result was that they had declared for York. He had not been certain the people of London fully understood the new reality. Their cheering reassured him.

Edward strode down the central aisle, thin ranks of his men holding back the mob. The path narrowed behind him as the soldiers were pushed inward. Everyone who could reached out and tried to touch Edward’s coat or armour.

Warwick and his bishop brother were shoved aside in the mass of men and women pressing to see Edward and wanting to follow him out. Bells rang above and the echoes filled the open spaces, becoming discordant as they refused to die away. Warwick swore as a great, pink-cheeked merchant raked a boot down his shin and trampled one of his feet, straining to see over the heads of the others. With a shove, Warwick watched the man go down hard and stepped over him, bawling for them to make way, to clear a path. Norfolk and his guards were not gentle in their handling of the crowd, and cries of pain showed their progress to the open air.

They could still see the head and shoulders of Edward, taller than anyone else. The sun had risen and Warwick stood still for an instant as Edward reached the even colder air outside and the light caught the ring of gold set into the harder metal. Even then, with the uncomfortable sense of too many pressing around him and a thousand things needing to be done, Warwick froze for a heartbeat, then blinked as an even greater roar went up from outside. He pushed and shoved more roughly, forcing his way through and ignoring both the apologies and the shouts of anger from those he wronged or knocked flat.

By the time Warwick reached the outside air, he was panting and red-faced, with sweat drying instantly on his skin. Edward noticed his arrival and laughed at his ruffled state.

‘See them, Richard!’ Edward shouted over the noise. ‘It is as if they have been waiting for this moment as long as I have!’

With a flourish, Edward drew his sword, held bare in his hand. Smiling wryly to himself, Warwick noted the blade was unbroken.

The crowd raised their hands and voices, seeing a king of England standing before them – and not a slight and pious figure, but a warrior of such physical power and height that he carried majesty in him. Some of them knelt, on stones so cold they numbed flesh in moments. It started with just a few monks, but the rest followed and the action spread along the square, revealing the members of Parliament, where they still stood and watched.

Edward met the stares of the Parliament men and he was not abashed, standing calmly until they too knelt in turn. They had made his father the heir and they held
something like power, but there was not a man there who misunderstood the reality. In that moment, all Edward had to do was point his sword and they would have been torn apart by the crowds, desperate to prove themselves to the new king.

‘London is a great fortress on a great river,’ Edward said suddenly. He made his voice hard and very clear, so that it rang back from the walls around him. He spoke like a Caesar. Watching the young man, Warwick felt his heart leap with hope for the first time since he had heard of his father’s death.

‘I have become King Edward the Fourth on this day, King of England, Wales and France and Lord of Ireland by the Grace of God, in the presence of His Holy Church, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.’

The kneeling masses echoed his final words, crossing themselves. Not one rose, though they shivered in a freezing wind. Edward looked down on them all.

‘I call you now, as your liege lord. Noble or commons, I call you to my side. Bring sword, axe, dagger, staff or bow. I am Edward Plantagenet, King of England. Send word. I call you out. Walk with me.’

Edward held up one half of a round silver seal, weighing it in his hand. With his thumbnail, he scraped away a trace of red wax, flicking it through the air. Around him stood a dozen long tables, all laid out with Writs of Array summoning knights and lords. Thirty-two counties and a dozen cities would receive the vellum scripts demanding the best armed men in the country to answer the new king’s call.

Edward smiled as the four bearers of the Great Seal scurried about their business. The braziers created enough heat to make them all sweat. One man stirred a great vat of wax the colour of blood, while two others tended smaller pots of hot water bubbling around clay jugs. When the wax was liquid, they picked up the jugs with rags around the handles, bowing their heads to signal they were ready.

Edward gestured to them, tapping air.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Your Highness does not need to … We have, er …’ One of the men blushed and stared at his feet.

‘No, I’ll do it. My first Royal Seal deserves my own hand.’

The official swallowed and he and his companion approached the ring of tables. Edward laid the seal down and both men stepped in quickly. One poured exactly the right amount of wax into the silver mould, while the other
placed a gold ribbon and smeared a disc of wax on to the vellum to prepare the surface. It was the work of expert hands and eyes, and Edward was fascinated as he turned the setting seal over before the wax could harden too far. He waited then, for what seemed an age, as the seal-bearers fussed around the substance that ruled their lives.

One of them removed the silver halves, revealing a perfect image of Edward enthroned and bearing the royal sceptre. It had been cast for him the night before by the Tower mint’s silver master and he could only marvel at it as the Chaff-wax cleaned the seal and dropped it into a bucket of freezing water to aid the process.

‘Again, then,’ Edward said, looking around the ring of white cloth.

‘I will take that finished one, Your Highness, with your permission,’ came Warwick’s voice behind him.

Edward turned with a smile, gesturing to the Chaff-wax to hand it over.

‘It is a strange thing to see my face in wax,’ Edward said. ‘I can still hardly believe it. We have moved so fast.’

‘And we still move,’ Warwick replied. ‘I have eighty horsemen waiting, ready to carry your call as far as we can. Norfolk is out gathering knights, proclaiming a new king and the house of York on the throne.’

Edward nodded, moving with the seal-bearers and upturning the silver mould once again. He stared at the image left in the wax, shaking his head in wonder.

‘Good. That is enough for now I think, gentlemen. You may continue without me, until they are all sealed. My lord Warwick will bear them away then.’

The four officials bowed deeply, clutching their jugs and silver pieces to their chests. Edward pushed one table aside
to leave the ring, moving the massive piece of oak with just one hand.

‘The night before last,’ he said, ‘I was declared king. The result seems to be that everyone else has a thousand things to do, while I sit here and play with wax. Will you deny it?’

Warwick chuckled, though he ceased to make the sound when Edward’s eyes became dangerous. Away from the torches and the tables, the new king seemed to grow taller.

‘Should you concern yourself with nails and billhooks and salt fish?’ Warwick said. ‘The men are coming in, but we need weapons, food – a host of items to put them in the field. In your name, I have borrowed four
thousand
pounds today, with more to come from the Holy Houses.’

Edward whistled softly to himself, then shrugged.

‘Will even that be enough? I want the best archers, of course, but I must have townsmen as well. Those who cannot use a bow will need good pollaxes, bills, shields, mail, daggers.’

‘We have the Royal Mint,’ Warwick said. ‘I thought to borrow what we needed, but if it comes to it and consequences mean nothing, we could take the bars.’

Edward held up a hand, already tired of the details.

‘Not till the end, for that. I won’t be a thief. Do whatever else you have to do, my lord Warwick. Put my name to the life’s savings of all the Jews in London if you wish. I would be on the road into the north today if I had the men I needed. Yet you say I must delay and
delay
. You hold us back.’

Warwick closed his eyes in anger and Edward frowned, understanding before he could reply.

‘Ah, yes. I must wait – because my father rushed north with yours. Those two friends were too determined to bring their enemies down. Yes, I understand.’

For just an instant, Edward raised his head, struggling against the grief that made breath shudder in his chest. Unable to trust his voice, he clapped Warwick on the shoulder, staggering him.

‘These Writs of Array are the sparks, Edward,’ Warwick said softly. ‘We send them out to begin a great conflagration across the land – a bonfire on every hill, calling them in. Thirty-two counties, from the south coast to the River Trent.’

‘No further?’

‘Beyond Lincolnshire? I have not troubled. The queen has her North Lords. All her support is there. They have already chosen their side.’

Edward shook his head, thinking.

‘Send one more Writ then, just one, to Northumberland, like all the others going out. Send it to the sheriffs there, as if the Percy family had not chosen to defend a mindless, weakling king and his French wife.’

‘The Percy family will never join us,’ Warwick said.

‘No, but they will have had their warning. They began this war. I will win it on the field, I swear it on the Holy Cross. Let them know I am coming and that I fear them not.’ Edward put his hands behind his back, one fist holding the other as he leaned down to Warwick’s height. ‘You have one week more to assemble an army. After that, I will ride. On my own if I have to. But better with thirty or forty thousand, eh? Yes. Better we have enough men to finish the she-wolf once and for all. I will have those heads back, Warwick, from the Micklegate of York. I will take
them down – and yes, I will find others to put in their place.’

Margaret rode a grey mare, with her son trotting beside her on a sleepy old warhorse. The vast numbers supporting King Henry had spread around the city of York in all directions, taking billets in every local town and village. The official camp was just to the south, where the London road crossed the village of Tadcaster. That was their gathering place, where men walked or rode across ploughed fields to join the house of Lancaster in war. Clerks and scribes checked names for pay and handed out pollaxes and savage billhooks to any man without one.

As Margaret guided her son through a landscape of banners and tents, of archers and axemen, hundreds knelt until they had passed. Six knights trotted armoured geldings alongside mother and son. The banners streaming out behind them showed three royal lions, as well as Henry’s antelope and the red rose of Lancaster. Margaret wanted the symbols to be seen, wanted to show them all.

Every one of her lords was busy with a hundred tasks, or so it seemed. It would have made sense for her husband to ride with her, to show himself to the ranks assembling. His father would certainly have done that, cantering into every camp and speaking to all the captains and the men he would ask to stand and die for him. That was what they said. Instead, her husband had retreated into his own peaceful world of prayer and contemplation, far from the dangers she faced on his behalf. On a good day, Henry would rouse himself enough to discuss some thorny moral issue with the Bishop of Bath and Wells. At times, Henry could even fluster that poor old man with his learning. Yet
he could not ride out to oversee an army setting tents and sharpening weapons, ready to put their lives to hazard in his name.

In King Henry’s place, Margaret showed them her son, Edward. At seven years old, he was a tiny figure to be perched on the wide back of a warhorse. Yet he rode proudly, with his spine straight and a cool gaze looking out over the camps.

‘How many there are, Mother!’ he called to her, showing a pride that squeezed her heart.

Somerset and Derry Brewer both said he had the blood of his grandfather in him, without a doubt, the warrior king and victor of Agincourt. Margaret still watched the boy for his father’s weakness, but there was no sign. She crossed herself and muttered a prayer to the Virgin Mary, as a mother who would understand her fears only too well.

‘They have come to stand against traitors, Edward – to punish the evil men in London.’

‘The ones who closed the gates?’ he asked, pursing his mouth in recollection.

‘Yes, those very men. They will come with great fierceness and anger, but we have here such a host as I have never seen – perhaps the largest army ever to march.’

She reined in with gentle pressure, halting her mare and turning to her son.

‘Learn the banners, Edward. These men will stand with you when you are grown. If you ask them. When you are king, by God’s Grace.’

Her son beamed at the idea and, for just a moment, she laughed with unaffected pleasure, reaching out to his head and rubbing his blond hair. Edward scowled at that and pushed her hand away.

‘Not in front of my lords, Mother,’ he growled at her, red-faced.

Margaret was caught between outrage and delight at his spirit, with one hand held near her mouth, where she had pulled it back.

‘Very well, Edward,’ she said, a little sadly.

‘I will ask them to follow me, when I am grown,’ he went on, trying to ease the sudden stiffness in the way she held herself. ‘They must not see me as a boy.’

‘But you
are
a boy. And my delight, my sweet jelly, whom I could squeeze to death whenever I see you frown. I could bite those ears of yours, Édouard.’ He was in the middle of mock-groaning, half delighted at her quicksilver moods, until he heard the French pronunciation of his name and shook his head.

‘Mama, that is not my name. I am Edward of Westminster, Prince of Wales. I will be king of England – and of France. But I am an
English
boy, with the dust of green hills … and ale in my veins.’

Margaret looked coldly at him in turn.

‘I hear your voice, Edward, but I hear the words of Derry Brewer. Is that not so?’

Her son blushed furiously, glancing away. She saw his expression change and looked in the same direction. Margaret was not sure if she was relieved or annoyed to see Derry Brewer’s spavined old mount jogging along towards them, all hooves and elbows. The man was a rotten horseman.

‘Master Brewer! My son was just telling me how the dust of English hills runs in his veins.’

Derry beamed at the Prince of Wales, pleased.

‘And so they
do
, my lady. With the water of English
streams in his blood as well. He will make us all proud, I do not doubt …’ His voice trailed away as he realized Margaret was not smiling along with the idea. Derry shrugged rather than argue. ‘His father is the king, my lady. His grandfather was the greatest battle king we have ever known, just about. Some would say Edward the Third, but no, for those of us who know true value, Henry of Agincourt was the man to follow.’

‘I see. And there is no French blood in my son, then?’ Margaret said.

Derry scratched a bit of mud off his horse’s ear before replying.

‘My lady, I have seen enough children born to know the mother is more than just a vessel, or a garden for a seed, as some say. I have seen mothers with red hair and every child they bear has the same ginger locks. The womb must scorch the child within, I can’t deny it. Yet Edward here
is
a prince of England. God willing, he will be king one day. He has grown on English meat and learned English manners. He has drunk ale and water and wine from grapes in this soil. There are some who see the value in that. There are some who might say that makes him blessed above all other tribes, my lady. And some who don’t, of course. Mainly the French.’

He grinned at her and Margaret tutted aloud, looking away to the vast camp.

‘You did not seek me out to discuss being English, Master Brewer.’

He dipped his head, pleased that she would let the subject rest.

‘Lads, would you take the prince here to see the cannon? I heard Captain Howard was test-firing two wheeled
guns today, with balls as big as my hand. Not Captain Howard …’

He stopped himself, aware that Margaret was already irritated with him. She waved a hand to give permission and her son rode away with two of the banner-bearers, proclaiming his name and blood with the quartered English lions and French fleurs-de-lis.

Derry watched him go with affection on his flushed face.

‘He is a fine lad, my lady. You should not fear for him. I only wish he had a dozen brothers and sisters to secure your line.’

It was Margaret’s turn to blush and she changed the subject.

‘What news, Master Brewer?’

‘I did not want your son to hear, my lady. But you should know. Edward of York has declared himself king in London. I had a man half kill himself to bring the news to us.’

Margaret turned fully to face him, her mouth opening in shock.

‘What do you mean, Derry? How can he call himself … My
husband
is the king!’

Derry winced, but he forced himself on.

‘His father was made the official heir to the throne, my lady. In time, we would have put that right, but it seems the son has taken that and bargained it into something greater. He has … well, it seems he has a fair gathering of support, my lady. London made a choice when they kept the gates shut. They must support him now – and that means gold and men and authority, come from Westminster Hall, the Abbey – the thrones and sceptres, the Royal Mint.’

‘But … Derry, he is
not
the king. He is a traitor and a usurper, a mere boy!’

‘My man said he is a giant, my lady, who now wears a crown and summons soldiers and levies of men in the king’s name.’

He saw that the blood had drained from Margaret’s face as she sat with her back slumping. His heart went out to her, fearing it was one blow too many.