Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (28 page)

As the stars turned overhead, Edward’s men urged him
to ride on alone. If his horse had been fresh, he might have done, but the animal’s head was drooping. His hopes soured into vinegar. The army behind was not content to herd him south. They were pressing on at their best speed, coming closer and closer. Edward and his men could see the dark, trudging lines blotting out the natural lie of the land behind them. There were thousands in his wake.

The London road swung south-west for a time, taking Edward and his men past the rolling valleys where he had fought the battle of Towton. Those who remembered crossed themselves and said a prayer for the dead. No one ever rested a night there, not with so many ghosts and so much blood soaked into the clay.

The image of being captured in such a place spurred Edward on. He called to his men to take heart and wait for dawn, all the while thinking furiously of where he might bolt and who he could reach in time to aid him.

By the time the sun showed first light, Edward was grimly accepting. He had not a quarter of the men stalking him – and his men and the horses were spent, their stamina gone. The archers were pale and stumbling in the dawn light, halting the moment they saw Edward rein in.

He turned his warhorse back to face those coming down the road. With sharp commands, his knights sent the archers out in a wide line in case fighting began. Two hundred of them could do terrible damage, though those on horseback would never survive an exchange of shafts.

The light was too dim at first to see more than the rows of archers spreading out on the other side in answer to his own. Edward shook his head irritably. He was the king of England, and beyond the inner fury that lay banked, his main emotion was curiosity. There were not many enemies
who would have had the nerve to trap him in such a way. He felt a touch of fear as well, causing him to recall his father’s fate. He pressed that away with an effort, determined to show only contempt.

A small group of armoured men rode closer, with a herald out in front to call for peace. Edward turned to his men, patting the air with a mailed glove.

‘Keep your swords down,’ he told them. ‘You cannot defend against so many and I would not have you throw your lives away.’

There was a palpable sense of relief on his side of the battle lines. His four hundred faced many more and they knew they were yawning and weak with hunger. It would not have gone well for them if the young king had ordered them to fight to the last man.

‘Surrender to my custody, Edward. You will be fairly treated, on my honour.’

The voice came from the centre of the armoured men, making Edward peer. His eyes widened a fraction in the dim light as they made out the features of George Neville, Archbishop of York. In armour rather than robes, the man was as burly as any warrior.

‘Treason, then?’ Edward asked, still trying to understand what was happening. Alongside the archbishop, he saw John Neville, or Marquess Montagu as he had made him. Edward’s confusion faded and he nodded to himself.

Seeing the king resigned to his fate, the archbishop chuckled and brought his horse up close. To Edward’s astonishment, the man levelled a sword at him, the point unwavering.

‘Now, surrender, Your Highness. Say the word or I will
give you to my brother and he will take your head. As you took his title.’

Edward stared back for an age, his expression reptilian.

‘So the Nevilles have turned against me,’ Edward muttered.

Despite the archbishop’s breadth of shoulder, the man was no true warrior. Edward wanted to smack the sword aside and lay about him in fury. He knew if he did they would kill him. He clenched his fist and then unstrapped his sword, handing it over and watching as it was taken out of his reach. He felt weaker without the weapon, reduced.

‘Warwick, too?’ Edward asked suddenly. ‘Ah. His daughter’s marriage?’

‘You
have
given us cause, Your Highness,’ the archbishop replied. ‘I will ask you for the last time now.’

‘Yes, very well. I surrender,’ Edward snapped. He saw the tension leave some of the men facing him and he sneered at them.

‘What a mark of courage to hide your banners! Or is it that you know of all men I do not forgive my enemies? I understand your fear, lads. Were I in your position, I would feel it myself, most cruelly.’

He watched in scorn as archers fanned out around him, arrows nocked on the cords to draw and shoot at the slightest provocation.

‘Your Highness,’ the archbishop said. ‘I must bind your hands. I do not want you tempted into running. I would not see you hurt.’

Edward breathed harder as a strange knight approached to wind twine around and around his wrists, taking some small satisfaction from the way the man flinched as their
eyes met. There was a promise of retribution in Edward’s gaze that was unpleasant to look upon.

‘There, Your Highness. You have a long ride ahead of you to the place we have prepared. You need not fret about your men. They are no longer your concern and my brother John will sift them well.’

Edward’s gaze met that of his father-in-law. The older man shrugged at him, an admission that there was nothing to be done. Edward clenched his jaw and allowed his horse’s reins to be taken. The road led south and some sixty horsemen rode out with him. He could see his men had been almost swallowed up, encircled. He forced himself to turn away and consider his own fate.

‘Does your brother Warwick know of this? Is he part of this conspiracy of treason?’ Edward asked again.

‘He is the head of the family, Your Highness. If you cut one of us, you cut him. Perhaps he’ll come to see you at Warwick Castle. Is it not strange to think my brother has
two
kings of England in his custody: Henry in the Tower and now you?’ The archbishop tutted to himself in awe at the very idea.

Edward shook his head.

‘You are a fool to say such a thing to me. I will not forget it, nor anything else. And there is only one king.’

Warwick smiled, breathing the soft air of morning. On the Dover quays, the first catch of the day was already laid out to be bought by merchants willing to seek higher prices inland. The earl had always loved ships and the sea, taking more pleasure in the lash of spray and white-crested waves than a perfect spring morning. Yet his carriage and driver were trundling along the wooden quays towards him, and
his daughter and her husband were arm in arm, walking and murmuring to each other as they went. Warwick had to whistle to catch their attention and bring them back to his side as he clambered in. With a moment’s thought, he took a seat at the far end, so that the newly married couple could sit together.

His daughter Isabel was blushing, always finding some way to have a hand or a knee touching George of Clarence. She looked up at him adoringly and Warwick considered that the young man had obviously been kind to her the night before.

As the open carriage trundled away with a snap of the whip over the horses, Warwick saw that his son-in-law was looking pensive.

‘Are you well, George?’ Warwick said.

‘Never better, sir, though I confess I cannot keep from considering my brother’s reaction to the news. I only want him to accept what he must accept and for us to speak of it no more. It is as you said, sir. Isabel and I are married now. That cannot be changed. Do you think Edward will accept it?’

Warwick turned, looking out to the road stretching dustily away.

‘I’m sure he will,’ he replied. ‘We must all accept what we cannot change. I am not worried, George. Not worried at all.’

‘Go home now,’ John Neville said. ‘My men shall witness justice here.’ He glared at the bedraggled remnants of the royal hunting party, just daring them to refuse. Once King Edward had been taken away, Neville men-at-arms had gone amongst the group, using axe-handles to enforce their masters’ will. Bows, swords and any valuable piece of metal had all been removed. More than a few fine purses and baubles had been taken as well, the action enforced by sudden blows. There was no question of resisting, once they were surrounded. The king’s knights endured the rough treatment with stoic indifference for the most part. The archers had little of value on them beyond their bows, so they made a show of tossing the weapons on to a pile as if they meant nothing. It was a fine gesture, betrayed by the way their eyes followed the bows as they were unstrung and wrapped.

The bravest of the king’s party shouted in protest when the Woodvilles were singled out. Earl Rivers and his son were forced to dismount and had their hands bound, taken away from the rest of Edward’s knights and companions. As those men continued to shout and complain, John Neville’s temper frayed. With a sharp gesture, he sent his men in with cudgels to quiet them. The beating was brief, but it left two dead and four witless and bloody.

The remainder of the hunters were shoved and kicked
on to the road, dragging their dead and wounded between them. John Neville watched them go with murder in his eyes and few of them dared to look back.

When the last of the hunting party had vanished into the trees and fields, John Neville called for a camp to be set up, not far from the road. He sent some of the remaining horsemen into the nearby town to enquire about the use of their courtroom and their gallows.

‘You have no authority,’ Earl Rivers called. The white-haired old man was deadly serious by then, fully aware he had fallen amongst enemies. ‘We have surrendered, sir, in expectation of good treatment. Let there be no more lives lost. Ask what ransom you will, in time-honoured fashion. Speak not of courts and gallows to threaten me. You are a man of honour, are you not?’

‘I am many things, my lord,’ John Neville replied with a twisted smile. ‘And I have been more than I am today. They called me Edward’s dog, when I was a-killing lords for him. Somerset was one of mine, a duke I stretched on a stump and whose head I took.’ He nodded in satisfaction, sucking at a broken tooth as Earl Rivers paled. ‘And I was Earl Northumberland for a time as well. Your daughter didn’t like that, though, did she? She asked her husband to take my land and my home away from me.’

‘And in return, you have broken your oath of fealty. A treason that will see you burn in eternal flames.’

John Neville laughed at the threat, a dark clatter that was almost like sobbing.

‘You ought to have said that to my brother, my lord. It troubles his mind something terrible. Me? I will make confession and be washed clean as a babe. But I will see justice on you first. My men will witness.’

The Woodville son stepped closer then, free to walk though his arms had been bound behind him.

‘There is no path back for you, sir, not if you kill the queen’s own family. Do you understand? No redemption, no peace, not ever again. If you release us now, we can bear your demands to my sister. Is it Northumberland you want? It can be yours again, with such papers and seals so it can
never
be taken from you!’

‘Well, by Christ, aren’t you a lawyer, boy?’ John Neville responded, his eyes glittering. ‘I never knew you could make me such a fine offer! I would trust your word, o’ course, after having had it taken from me once before!’

With a growl, he kicked the young knight’s legs away and watched as he fell flat.

‘It is
Marquess
Montagu now. Though I fear I am left with scrapings, it is yet all I have.’ He looked up at the startled faces all around. ‘Bring me an axe here – and some more fellows to witness.’ While father and son looked stricken with fear, John Neville raised his voice to carry. ‘What better court than God’s green grass? On English soil? Is there more justice in oak? In iron bars? No, lads. We are honest men here. I need no judge but God above and my own conscience – and I declare this court in session.’

His men gathered all around and John Neville forced Earl Rivers to kneel alongside his son, pressing him down on to the damp ground.

‘You two Woodvilles, of no great line, are accused of being poor counsellors to the king of England, of making your nests in fine velvets and furs, while doing down a finer family and better blood.’

All around, men pressed in, standing and watching in silence. John Neville leaned in to Earl Rivers. ‘
You
are
complicit in stealing a good man’s titles and pushing yourself forward in their place.
Treasurer
,
Earl
.’

He made the names sound like accusations with his scorn. With a shove, John Neville pushed the old man on to his back. The son cried out in fear as their tormentor came to stand over him in turn. The young man looked around at the hard faces on all sides, still hoping it was cruel sport.

‘And
you
, who married an old duchess just to steal away her title. In my day, a knight was a man of honour. Shame on you, son.’

He too was sent over on to his back.

John Neville gestured and one of his men strode up smartly, with a billhook over his shoulder. The Woodvilles scrambled painfully back to their knees, not daring to rise. Father and son eyed the heavy blade with equal parts terror and disdain in their expressions.

‘I find you both guilty, of dishonouring your titles and sharp practice,’ John Neville said. ‘I sentence you to death. I suppose it’s not fitting for the judge to execute you, so I’ll be witness to’t. I’ll let your families know, don’t worry. I’m a fine hand with letters for the families.’

John Neville nodded to the crowd.

‘One of you run into town after the other lad. We won’t be needing the court, not now. And bring back some hot bread and a ham. I find I have an appetite.’

He gestured to the burly man who had stepped forward.

‘Go on with your work, son. Justice will be done. As for you two, may God have mercy on your black Woodville souls.’

Though Warwick Castle gave him the name he used most often, it was not one of Richard Neville’s favourite homes. Built right up to the banks of the River Avon, it was damp and cold in the mornings, the huge structure rambling around a courtyard almost too large for the scale of man. Unlike some of his other estates, the vast castle was too clearly a fortress built for war rather than any human comfort.

King Edward was confined to a room high in the western tower, guarded by two men at the door and another pair at the foot of the stairs. There was no danger of him escaping, though his great size and strength made him a threat to any man within reach. The king had given his parole not to escape, though it would not be honoured if they made no attempt to bargain with him or arrange for a ransom to be paid. In that, at least, Warwick knew the king would not believe a word. Warwick had no need of a king’s ransom.

Two guards stood close behind Edward, giving him great honour in the way they watched for him to lunge at Warwick. It was hard to relax under those steady stares, though Edward seemed to, leaning back in his chair and crossing his feet at the ankles. Warwick looked for some sign of discomfort at his captivity, but found none.

‘You have no complaints, then?’ he asked. ‘My men have treated you with courtesy?’

‘Beyond keeping the king of England a prisoner, yes,’ Edward said with a shrug. ‘Your fat archbishop brother crowed that you had two kings in cells. I told him then it was only one. I imagine you are already discovering there is a
difference
between holding Henry of Lancaster and holding me.’

Edward was watching him closely and Warwick kept his face blank, trying hard to give nothing away. It irritated him to have Edward lean back once again and smile as if he had seen something of note.

‘The days pass slowly here, with just a bible to read. What has it been, two months? A little more? A beautiful spring missed, as I cannot leave this tower. It is hard to forgive a man for that, Warwick, for making me miss a spring like this one. How much longer before you release me, do you think?’

‘What makes you think I will?’ Warwick said. ‘Your brother George is my son-in-law. I could put him on the throne if I wished – and go on from there.’

To his irritation, Edward chuckled and shook his head.

‘Do you think he would trust you if you did? I know him rather better than you do, Richard. He is a fool, yes, and too much a follower,
yes
, but he will not be king while I live – and he will not forgive you if I am killed. I think you know that very well, which is why I must endure long days here, while you try and put right the terrible mistake you have made.’

‘I have not made a mistake,’ Warwick replied peevishly.

‘No? If you kill me, you will never sleep again for fear of my brothers. Sooner or later, some follower of theirs will offer one of them your head. By now, the whole country knows you took the king of England prisoner. Whispers, Richard, right across the land. Did you think it would be as it was with Henry? I believe you did! A weak and feeble child no one had even seen for how many years? The lords and the commons did not care when Henry was captured. Only his wife stung them into fighting for him, or they
would have kicked a few stones and looked away and done nothing at all.’

Edward’s gaze hardened, so that Warwick could sense the roiling anger beneath the surface. The king’s hair had grown overlong, matted thick as a mane. There truly was something lion-like in him as he lounged there, insolent and strong.

‘I am not Henry,’ Edward said. ‘I imagine you have found keeping me is a little more trouble than you expected. Yes, I can see it in your face! How many counties have risen by now, to call for your head? How many sheriffs have been murdered, or judges or bailiffs or men of the law? How many members of Parliament have been chased through the streets by angry mobs? I am the
king
of England, Richard! I have blood ties and allies in half the noble families in England now – and I smell smoke in the air.’

Warwick could only stare as the young man sniffed, his gaze unwavering, drawing in a great breath.

‘Yes –
there
it is, Richard. England in flames. So … how long before you release me now, eh?’

It galled Warwick that Edward’s predictions were wrong only in the magnitude. The young king had not exaggerated them enough, that was the appalling truth of it. The reaction to Warwick capturing the king had been riots and unrest in the entire country. His brother the archbishop had been chased by a mob and had to barricade himself inside an abbey or be killed. A dozen Neville manors had been burned to the ground and entire towns had rioted, hanging their law officers and looting any and all – but always Neville holdings first.

The guiding hand was to be seen in the accuracy of the attacks, but Warwick thought they had run beyond even
the best hopes of Elizabeth, as a fire will spread out of control and leap across from one forest to another. In the years since her marriage, she had clearly charmed or flattered every man of influence who had waited on King Edward. Her call had gone to a thousand throats and was still doubling every day, spreading from estate to estate, village to village, from the south ports into Wales and up to the border of Scotland. The worst of it was that Warwick’s capture of her husband fitted so neatly with what she had whispered before. The Nevilles were proven traitors, just as Elizabeth Woodville had claimed. No one could deny it, now that they had captured Edward on the king’s own road and stolen him away.

Margaret of Anjou had never had a tenth of the support Elizabeth had gathered in just a few months, Warwick thought. That said, she had never had Edward for a husband. Everything the king had said was true – and much more. Henry had never won a battle, while Edward had been seen by half the country’s fighting men at Towton, leading from the front. Those men who had fought for York that day still lived. They remembered Edward’s wild ride to crush the flank attack. They had seen the king ride for them and they came out for him in return, to burn and hunt Neville lords.

Henry of Lancaster had hidden himself away in priories and abbeys, while Edward went hunting and toured the courts and towns, enjoying himself as a young man and buying lavish gifts for his family. Poor Henry had never had the wit to charm men who would willingly have followed him. It was more than Edward’s giant frame, or his skill with hawk and hound. He was a rough sort of king, but still much more the idea of one than Henry had ever been.

Warwick looked at the younger man’s self-satisfied expression and wanted to dash his confidence. He shook his head and smiled as if to reprove a child, knowing it would infuriate Edward.

‘I could bring Henry out of the Tower. His wife and his son are well, in France. An entire line – better, the
true
line, the true king restored. I have heard Edward of Westminster is a fine young man, grown tall now.’

Edward leaned forward at that, his mocking humour vanishing.

‘You … no, you would not.’ He spoke again before Warwick could ask. ‘Oh, I am sure you would put Henry on my throne, if it could be done. Now follow my reasoning, Richard. I have had long enough alone here to think. You’ve had the chance to kill that pale saint. You did not. I do not complain, Richard. I live as well, so I am thankful! Yet the truth of it is that you are not a cold-hearted killer. You would have to be one to put a crown on Henry’s head once again. Do you understand that? I suspect you do, or it would already have happened. You would have to wade through blood to do it – to cut out every Woodville, including my own daughters. You would not do such a thing. Not the man I have known and respected since I was a boy. It is not in you.’

Warwick looked at him long enough to catch the edge of worry behind the young man’s bluster. He understood it, considering his own two girls. Children were hostages to fortune, vulnerable to enemies. Just by existing, they could make a strong man weak, who might otherwise laugh in scorn at his own demise.