Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (9 page)

He glanced to the south, past the house and the trees, imagining Queen Margaret and all her noble lords raising wine cups and congratulating themselves on their victories. He was still tugged in two, called south to demand a reckoning and yet held in the north by the thought of his father’s humiliation. Spring was on the way. How could he leave the north, with his father’s head? How could he
not
, with his enemies still alive?

‘Yes, take him,’ he said to the old man, standing wide-eyed and unnerved by the big man’s silences. ‘I’ll be gone for a time and he should be with his mistress. Give him a bone of cold pink mutton. He likes that.’

‘I hope we will see you again, my lord?’

Edward looked down and smiled. It was not that his grief had gone. It was just that it could no longer unman and ruin him in the space of a single breath. He knew his father watched him and that there was a debt to be paid. His thoughts were clear and he breathed slowly and calmly.

‘Perhaps, if I live. If you live, too. For one who has seen as many winters as you, I suppose every day is a blessing.’

The old man blinked, unsure how to respond as Edward turned and stalked back to where his horse was held for him. His captains had watched and heard all and they
seemed to sense some change, so that the horses moved restlessly, wanting to be off.

‘My lord?’ one of them called.

‘Have the men break camp,’ Edward replied. ‘I am ready now. I will speak for York. And I will be heard.’

One of the men near Edward crossed himself in reflex, while another shuddered, his skin tightening down his back. They were heading to war once again. All those men had witnessed the battle of Mortimer’s Cross, where the sun had risen in three places, casting impossible shadows. They had seen Edward stalk with his sword across a field of the dead, bare-headed in red armour, gone mad with grief. All his captains and knights knew what he could do and they looked upon him with a sense of awe.

There was no food in the queen’s camp, not even a morsel of eel or dog to feed fifteen thousand men – and only seeping, brackish water to wet their throats. The last of anything edible had been consumed either before the clash at St Albans or with the walls of London in sight. As they gazed upon the capital city, stomachs rumbled and groaned at the thought of thick winter stews, soups, puddings and roast haunches turning slowly on inn-house spits, basting in their own clear juices.

For hours, the men Margaret had brought south either stood or sat their mounts in confused and whispering stillness, overawed by the thought of the king being kept waiting like a beggar. Margaret had given no orders for them to rest or make themselves comfortable, so no tents were unpacked from the baggage train at the rear, nor were any of the men allowed to sit. Those few who made the choice on their own were bawled at and dragged to their feet by red-faced serjeants.

As the sun touched the horizon and washed the walls in gold, Margaret accepted the requests of captains to allow men out to hunt, or even to take food from villages around the city, as far as a day’s ride away. She made a point of sending small parties only, just half a dozen horsemen at a time, but the truth was that the situation was utterly desperate. If the gates remained closed, her army would starve and be forced to move. She did not know what would
happen after that, with all the power and wealth of London denied to the king’s party. Such a thing had never happened before.

Derry Brewer had been busy from the first moment of arrival, working closely with Somerset as both men put aside their dislike in the face of a greater need. Together, they had sent a formal deputation to the gates to demand entry for the king. The Royal Seal had not been found, but Somerset wrote a dozen letters under his own wax, his frustration showing clearly. Derry sent messages of a different kind, written and spoken. He relied on less well-known routes, carried by urchin boys around the walled city, where the guards might not be quite so full of their own importance.

It was not as if London remained unaware of the army camped outside its walls. Neither Margaret nor her lords could understand it. They were the
victors
against York. They were Lancaster restored. Yet they could not take one step into London while nervous soldiers watched them with crossbows on their shoulders, as if they were some foreign force of invasion or more of Jack Cade’s rebels.

The formal demand for entry was carried up on ropes to disappear into the city. Somerset had remounted to wait in the front rank, still certain the gates would be opened. On his right shoulder, the winter sun began to sink. His horse scraped at the road with a hoof, but he stayed in that spot. The capital city of King Henry’s realm could not possibly leave the king and queen to freeze in the open. The young duke waited with his bannermen clearly visible on the road, ready to dig in their heels and ride through the gates as the vanguard, the moment they were opened.
The light faded swiftly and the cold was bitter as darkness came and the moon appeared low in the sky.

Somerset found he was shivering in his armour. He moved, shaking his head with a creak of metal and slumping just a fraction as he eased aching muscles.

‘Find a place to sleep,’ he snapped to his men. ‘They won’t open the gates at night. That’s it until tomorrow, may they all be
poxed
.’

He turned his horse and trotted back to where an ad hoc camp had sprung up on the road itself. It was no help to the royal party that the ground alongside was soft and wet. A man standing there could watch green water seep over his boots in just a few minutes. They could certainly not sleep on such a marsh and instead were forced to cram themselves into every dry spot on the road, stretching back for miles. It was a misery of inconvenience, but none of them had imagined they might be held outside the city.

As Derry had expected, he was summoned to King Henry’s presence as soon as Somerset gave up his furious vigil at the gates. Derry was not at all sure the king knew why they had halted, but Margaret was alive with anger, pacing up and down a narrow strip between two carts brought up to shelter her. An awning had been drawn tight between them and raised on poles in case it began to rain. Torches had been dragged up, along with a brazier from the gun teams, so that there was a dim golden light. Derry ducked under a flap of cloth and waited until a guard recognized him before going further in. They were all a little jumpy that night and it would not do to take a knife in the ribs for pushing past a guard. Derry spotted a boy he knew looking for him and he clicked in his cheek to catch the lad’s attention. One of the guards was quick enough to
snag the lad as he darted towards Derry. The spymaster stepped over quickly.

‘Mine,’ he muttered. ‘One of mine. Hands off.’

‘Like boys, do you?’ the guard replied, ruffled.

Twenty years before, Derry would have battered the guard to his knees. He was weary and more than fifty years old, with a long campaign and the fury of being blocked at the last point to make his anger simmer. All of a sudden, he didn’t care. He grabbed the guard and sent the man reeling in a flurry of short, clubbing blows, to the shocked audience of the queen’s tent. For a brief time, Derry was unaware of all of them as he whipped crosses against the man’s lolling head and alternated between throttling him and thumping his fist into the guard’s nose and lips. No one stopped him, and when Derry finally released his grip and let the guard fall, he turned to see both Clifford and Somerset regarding him. Lord Clifford looked distinctly unsettled, while Somerset chuckled and shook his head, amused.

The messenger boy was taking a breath to crow when he became aware of the silent scrutiny of Queen Margaret. Her husband sat to one side in that makeshift tent between carts, his head lowered either in sleep or in prayer. The London urchin snapped his own mouth closed, standing mute and staring at the stone floor.

‘Outside, lad,’ Derry said, panting, cuffing his employee with an aching hand. His knuckles would be swollen and black by the following morning, he was certain. By God, it had felt good, though. He did not look down at the guard as he stepped over him and half dragged the boy into the darkness.

‘I hope you have something good for me after that,’ Derry said, bending lower. ‘Well? What did you find out?’

The boy was still thrilled to have witnessed a proper beating and grinned in admiration at the queen’s spymaster.

‘I spoke to Jemmy. He ’elped me in.’

Derry reached out and smacked the boy across the back of the head in one fast movement. He was not in the mood for stories and he knew well enough that there were a hundred places where an agile crawler might gain entrance to the city. He’d used one or two of the spots himself when he’d been younger and his knees hadn’t been quite so insistent in their complaints.

‘Why are the gates shut?’

The boy rubbed the back of his head sullenly, his good mood gone as quickly as it had come.

‘They’re all afraid of northern dogs and servages what eats children.’

‘Savages,’ Derry said.

‘Thassit. The mayor and ’is old men.’

‘Aldermen,’ Derry murmured as the boy went on.

‘Thass ’em. There was a mob or summing, full of merchants and rich folk. Told the mayor they’d ’ave ’is gizzard if ’e even fort about openin’ the gates. So ’e sits tight and does nuffin’.’

‘Have you
seen
the mayor?’ Derry asked. ‘Can I tap him on the shoulder?’

The boy knew the phrase for having a man killed, but he shrugged, his skinny shoulders moving sharply.

‘Maybe, but the ’ole city’s frightened of your rough dogs. They aint ’eard nothing but stories of rape and killin’ for a month. Look …’ The boy knew Derry would not want to hear what he had to say. Derry saw the lad rub his nose and sniff, steeling himself to go on. ‘Look … they’re
all afraid. Anyone who goes near a gate to open it will get a knife in ’is back.’

‘The king of England …’ Derry said, raising a hand in disbelief.

The boy flinched.

‘It doesn’t matter if God and all ’is Saints are out ’ere. No one’s getting in.
No one
. Not till spring.’

The boy noticed the spymaster was staring off into space and held out his hand. Derry reached into a pocket and counted out tiny silver farthings and full pennies. He passed a few of them into the boy’s grasping fingers, oblivious to the growing smile as he overpaid.

‘This one’s odd-lookin’,’ the messenger said, holding it up. ‘Funny picture on it.’

Derry focused, seeing a Scottish penny. The boy’s instincts were good, as the thing was only two-thirds silver. He wondered which of Margaret’s Scottish companions had slipped it into someone else’s winnings.

‘Here’s a better one,’ he said, holding up an English penny. ‘Now go on with you. I hope you get to spend it in the city.’

‘I will if I want. Not your fancy lords, though. They ain’t movin’ from this spot.’

‘Go on,’ Derry said, ducking back into the fug of smoke and sweat and too many bodies pressed into too small a space.

The guard had been replaced by another, staring coldly at him. The murmur of conversation dropped away as those inside looked up and recalled that Derry Brewer might have some information. Somerset raised his eyebrows and even Clifford kept his thoughts to himself.

‘Well, Brewer?’ Somerset said. ‘What news? Are they all traitors, then, beyond that gate? Shall I have the cannon I took from Warwick brought up to break the walls of our beloved capital?’

Responding to the acid tone, Derry smiled just as mirthlessly and shook his head. He’d spoken to half a dozen lads and read two letters smuggled out to him. They all said the same thing. There was no joy in being proved right, not if it meant London was barred to them.

‘Your Majesty, Queen Margaret, my lords. It’s my belief we’re seeing fear more than the actions of traitors or those in league with York. The Londoners are afraid of this army, let loose on their streets. They have heard all the tales, and seen the
columna nubis
– the pillars of smoke, my lord Somerset.’ Derry paused for emphasis and Somerset dropped his gaze for a moment. ‘The mayor sees only another army howling to come in – and he’s heard too many ragged families talk of barking northerners and bare-legged Scots. He is a faint-heart, of a certainty, but I think not a traitor throwing in with Warwick.’

‘This mayor, he can be reassured, then?’ Margaret said suddenly. Somerset dipped his head over whatever he had been going to say, allowing the queen to have the floor. ‘What do you suggest, Master Brewer?’

‘The city is fearful of our soldiers, my lady. I would march the army away for a mile or two, leaving only a small force of guards and lords with King Henry. There is a chance the mayor might open his gates for those …’

‘That fat
grocer
?’ Lord Clifford interrupted. ‘The mayor has already had the gall to refuse the orders and authority of King Henry. He saw the royal banners! I would rather
have cannon brought to the front. Let him see the consequences of his betrayal!’

There was a growl of support in that small space. The simple fact of the king being refused entry was still shocking to all of them. There was at least something satisfying about the image of blowing Moorgate into pieces. They had the guns to do it, left on the field by Warwick’s forces. It would be almost poetic.

Derry cleared his throat to speak again. He eyed King Henry for a fraction of time, assuring himself that the king would not play a part in the discussion. Henry remained still and silent, though his fingers twitched on his thighs.

‘My lady, it is possible Lord Clifford has not fully considered how using cannon on the walls of London would be seen around the country,’ Derry said, his expression tight and his gaze fastened on the queen. ‘With a little more reflection, my lord Clifford may realize that it would weaken King Henry’s authority as almost nothing else could. Perhaps as a last resort, but those walls are twelve feet thick and the gates are reinforced with iron.’

Clifford snorted and Derry went on quickly before the man could speak over him.

‘I do not say they
will
not fall. Only that it will take time. If an iron gun is brought up, the team will be vulnerable to archers on the wall – and whatever cannon they can raise to the walkway and the mountings up there. All those long guns are from London foundries, after all. With the height, they can match our range – and much further.’

Derry let that thought seep into those gathered around. It seemed to have stolen some of the rising anger.

‘So, before we stand out here pounding on the gate like a drunk, we should consider other ways in. The mayor will fear some sort of treachery from us – a trick or a trap, or simply some fearful punishment once he opens the gate and allows us to pass through. He will delay and discuss and send letters back and forth.’ Derry bowed his head in Margaret’s direction. ‘I suspect he will accept your assurances as to his safety, my lady. From what I remember of the man, my lord Clifford has the right of it. Mayor Richard Lee is not a warrior. He will surely be sweating in terror at this moment. We must simply show him a path through the thicket – and he will take it.’

Derry did not need to remind those present of the shadows hanging over them. They had defeated Warwick in one battle, but his army had not been broken, merely bloodied and sent running. The man was somewhere out in the forests and valleys, licking his wounds like any other wild dog. Derry rubbed a spot between his eyes, wishing he could sleep. Warwick would have expected them to march straight into London. How long would it be before the earl discovered they were still on the road, the entire royal family vulnerable to attack?

Beyond that sobering prospect, there was another army and another angry son out in the darkness. Derry had hoped to have the king and queen safely behind London’s walls by the time Edward of York joined with Warwick. The spymaster had not allowed himself any false sense of victory, not while two such powerful sons were still unaccounted. There were a couple of spikes empty on the Micklegate Bar of York. Until they were filled, Derry suspected he would never know true rest.