Margaret of Anjou (6 page)

—

T
HOMAS
, L
ORD
E
GREMONT
, watched the neat files of archers trotting away. Over the long summer, the grasses had been baked almost to white, yet grown so tall that a man only had to drop to one knee to vanish. He’d had the very devil of a time even finding the Neville party in lands he did not know well. Trunning had sent scouts ranging out in all directions the night before, casting his net wider and wider until one of them came bolting back in, red in the face and yelling his news. The Percy swordmaster had the men up and ready to march while Thomas had still been yawning and staring around him.

He and Trunning had said little to each other since the lines had been drawn in the yard at Alnwick. Thomas had told himself he didn’t need the sour little strip of gristle, but the truth was, Trunning knew how to campaign. Old soldiers and townsmen looked to Trunning for orders, because he was always there to give them. It was no great skill, as far as Thomas could see. All it required was an eye for small things and a blistering temper. Thomas wondered if he imagined the man’s disdain whenever their eyes locked. It didn’t matter, even so. They had found the Neville wedding party and though there were far more soldiers than either of them had expected, they still had the numbers to slaughter them all.

Thomas drew up at the center of a line of horsemen, forming the right wing to five hundred ax and sword men, already bright with sweat from the hard march through the predawn. As the archers went in ahead, it was a chance for those men to catch their breath. At least the day’s heat was still no more than a threat. It would be a misery later on, with the weight of armor and weapons and the sapping exhaustion of using them. Lord Egremont grinned at the thought, an expression that faded slightly as he saw Trunning bring his mount up close and insert the animal into the waiting line. The man was never still, and Thomas could hear his hoarse voice yelling threats at some unfortunate who had wandered out of position.

Ahead of them, six score archers disappeared into the brush, each man on his own as they advanced and sought out targets. Thomas had no idea if the Nevilles had brought archers with them. If they had not, his hundred and twenty would begin the butchery with shafts, cutting them to pieces without the loss of a single one of his small army.

Thomas jerked his head up as he heard someone scream, a distant figure lurching out from where he had been hiding himself. More yells sounded and across the mile of open ground, Thomas could see scurrying men who stopped and seemed to twitch and then moved on, sending arrows ahead of them. He shuddered, imagining the panting archers trying to look in all directions, waiting always for the sudden agony as they were seen and spitted through with a shaft. It was ugly work and it was clear by then that the Nevilles had their own lads out with bows to meet them.

Thomas took a breath, looking stonily ahead rather than at Trunning for his approval.

“Close up on them! With me, in good order!” he shouted along the line.

The men-at-arms took a firmer grip on their swords and axes and the horsemen clicked tongues in their cheeks, urging their mounts into a slow walk forward. The archers would be reaching the Neville lines, in range to bring them crashing down.

Ahead of him, Thomas saw two burly men stand up suddenly, appearing out of the gorse and bushes. He saw them bend longbows and jerked his shield up, rocked back an instant later as a shaft struck it with a loud crack. The other disappeared past him, causing someone to cry out in pain or shock behind. Trunning was bellowing an order, but the line was already moving. Archers had to be charged and the line of horsemen surged ahead of those on foot, shields held high and visors down, swords ready to strike. Thomas felt excitement swell as he used his spurs to send his huge black horse into a plunging canter.

The two archers tried to dodge, throwing themselves to the ground as the first horsemen closed the distance. Thomas saw them in a cloud of dust, scrabbling desperately to fend off hooves and a sword-blow as a knight galloped over them. Then they were behind, left for the axemen to cut as they raced up.

He was riding hard by then, the line of armored knights growing ragged as they encountered the natural obstacles of the land. Thomas felt his mount bunch and guided it over a thornbush, clipping it with its hooves so that the thing quivered in his wake. He adjusted his shield and leaned back, slowing the pace so that he would not get too far ahead. The Nevilles were there, just eight hundred yards or so away, looking small and weak against the pounding line of horses.

“Lord Egremont! Slow down, you stupid . . .”

Thomas looked around in fury as Trunning’s horse cut across him. The man had the impertinence to take hold of his reins and yank on them.

“Take your hands off!” Thomas snarled at him. He looked around then and saw that he had left his main force far behind.

Trunning removed his grip, raising his visor and mastering his anger with some difficulty.

“My lord, you’ll have them all blown, trying to keep you in sight. Half a mile is too far to run in mail. Where are your wits! Did those archers break your courage? Whisht, man, there aren’t so many now.”

Thomas felt an almost overpowering desire to cut Trunning from his saddle. If he’d thought his father’s man could have been surprised he might have risked it, but Trunning was a veteran, always ready to leap away or attack. Even the swordmaster’s horse seemed to skitter in small steps from side to side, the old bag of bones as used to the clash of arms as its master. Thomas knew by then that Trunning was right to have halted him, but the words still stung and he could hardly see for rage.

“See to the men, Trunning. Shout and order them as you please, but I’ll have your head on a
pike
if you dare touch my reins again.”

To his disgust, Trunning merely grinned and pointed at the Neville force.

“The enemy lies over there, Lord Egremont, if you are uncertain. Not here.”

“I sometimes wonder, you pompous little whoreson,” Thomas snapped. At least he’d scored a point with his father’s man. Trunning’s face darkened and he opened his mouth to reply, then ducked suddenly from some instinct as arrows flew around them, sent from both sides. Thomas swore, seeing two archers in jerkins of silver and red fall with arrows through their chests. He raised a hand in thanks to the pair of his men who had brought them down. They touched their forelocks to him, loping on.

“Close up!” Trunning roared. “Close on Egremont! Here!”

The lines re-formed around Thomas as he sat his saddle and fumed. He could hear the rasping breath of the men-at-arms as they reached him. They were panting hard in the thick morning warmth and it galled to know Trunning had been right, as always.

“Stand here and rest,” Thomas called to them, seeing relief flood their faces. “Take water and wait. We are three times their number, can you see?”

When they had settled, he walked them all forward, his mount stepping gingerly over the bodies of dead archers as they came across them, each one lying alone with arrows standing like bristles in his flesh. Thomas could still hear the clatter of bows across the shrinking strip between the two forces, but he thought there were more bodies in Neville colors than his own gray men.

All the time he had been racing about in the meadows with the horsemen and Trunning, the Nevilles had stood still, waiting for him. As his men settled down to a slow walk, he saw their line suddenly leap forward, coming in a rush. Thomas blinked. The Nevilles were so badly outnumbered, it was suicide to come out to where he could surround and destroy them. He had assumed Salisbury would dig in and defend his camp for as long as he could, perhaps while the man sent riders to summon aid. For them to attack made no sense at all.

“Archers! Sight on the front ranks!” he heard Trunning yell. It made Thomas’s spirits soar to see a dozen hidden men lurch up from the long grass, abandoning the savage game with the Neville bowmen to respond to Trunning’s order. As soon as they left cover, Neville archers leaped up in turn and arrows flew once more: short, chopping blows that snatched them from their feet. The toll was appalling on both sides, but Thomas could see six or eight of his bowmen survived to take aim at the Neville line. It was too late for them to run, and they shot volley after volley until they were engulfed.

With a great roar, Salisbury’s knights rode over those who stung them, horses and men crashing down together, falling behind. Not two hundred yards separated the forces then and Thomas felt his mouth dry and his bladder swell. They moved well, those Neville horsemen. Thomas swallowed nervously, understanding at last that he faced Salisbury’s own guard. A quick glance to the left and right reassured him. He had the width of the line. He had the numbers. Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont, raised his arm for one glorious moment and then Trunning gave the order to charge before he could, the treacherous little bastard.

R
ichard of York was in a fine, expansive mood. The day was hot, with an odor of plaster and stone dust in the dry air. The Painted Chamber in the Palace of Westminster was centuries old, with a dark red ceiling that was cracked right along its length and almost always damp. For once, it had dried, and the smell was quite pleasant.

York sat back as a piece of parchment as long as his arm was passed around the long table. Each of the seated men paused reverently as he received it, reading again the words that would make Edward of Westminster both the Prince of Wales and the heir to the English throne. More than one of the gathered lords sneaked glances from under lowered brows at York, trying to discern his deeper game. Edmund Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, made them all wait as he read the formal declaration from the beginning once again, searching for something he had missed.

The silence grew strained as they all waited for Somerset to take up the quill and sign his name. Nearby, the Westminster bell was struck for noon, the notes booming through the corridors. York cleared his throat, making Somerset look up sharply.

“You were present as this was written, my lord,” York said. “Are you unhappy as to its purpose? Its effect?”

Somerset pushed his tongue between his top lip and his teeth, his mouth twisting. There was no subtle clause he could see, no clever wording to deny King Henry’s son his rights of blood and inheritance. Yet he could not escape the suspicion that he had missed something. York surely gained nothing by allowing the line of Lancaster to go on for another generation. If there was ever a time to declare for the throne, Somerset was certain it was that very moment. King Henry was still senseless, witless, drowned in fog. York had ruled in the king’s name for more than a year with neither disasters nor invasion from France, beyond the usual raids on shipping and the coastal towns. Somerset was only too aware that York’s popularity was growing. Yet there it was, on papers Parliament had witnessed and passed on for the Lords and of course York himself to sign, seal, and make law. The men in that room would confirm a baby boy as the future King of England. Somerset shook his head irritably as two more barons cleared their throats, wanting to move on to lunch and the afternoon.

“This has been four months in the making,” Somerset said without looking up. “You’ll wait a moment more while I read it through again.”

York sighed audibly, settling back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling high above. He could see the mud nest of a swallow in the rafters, some valiant or perhaps foolish little bird who had chosen that room to raise its young. York thought he could see a flicker of movement at the entrance hole and fixed his gaze on it, content to wait.

“The boy Edward will be invested in Windsor,” Somerset said aloud. “There is no mention here of regents while he grows.”

York smiled.

“His father is still king, Edmund. Appointing a regent would be an error twice over. I have agreed to protect and defend the kingdom for the duration of King Henry’s illness. Would you have me appoint a third man, or a fourth? Perhaps you would have us all ruling England by the time you are done.”

Chuckles echoed his words around the table, while Somerset glowered.

“King Henry will wake from whatever presses him down,” he replied. “Where will you be then, my lord York?”

“I pray for it,” York said, his eyes showing only amusement. “I have services said every day that I may lay down the terrible burden of my authority. My father’s line may come from King Edward, but the sons of John of Gaunt stand before mine. I have not desired the throne, Edmund. All I have done is to keep England safe and whole, that small thing, while her king dreams.
I
am not the father to this child, only his Protector.”

There was a subtle emphasis in his final words and though Somerset knew York sought to goad him, he bristled even so, his right fist clenching on the table. He had heard the rumors drifting through the Lords and the Commons. Such whispers were beneath contempt, sprung from the wicked desire to ruin Queen Margaret and deny her son his rightful place. With a muttered curse, Somerset snatched up a quill and signed his name with a flourish, allowing the scribes in attendance to take the scroll from him and sand the ink before passing it at last to York.

Perhaps to infuriate the older man, York let his own gaze pass slowly over the words in turn. It was not a moment to rush and he scratched his neck as he read, sensing the amusement in the other men and the simmering anger in the duke across from him. In truth, York had considered delaying the passage of the discussions in Parliament even further. If King Henry passed from the world before it was signed and sealed, York was at that moment the royal heir. He had been made so by statute four years before, when it had seemed the queen was barren, or the king unable to perform his duties.

The thought was a pinch in his mind, even then, that only his own signature lay between himself and the Crown. Yet Salisbury had persuaded him. The head of the Neville family knew better than anyone how to manage power and secure it for those of his own blood. It was most gratifying to see all that Neville intellect and cunning employed to his advantage, York mused as he read. When he had married Cecily Neville, the house of York had gained the strength of a clan and bloodline so wide and varied that they would surely come to rule, regardless of the married names or the particular coat of arms. He was only grateful that they had decided upon York as their champion. A man standing with Nevilles could rise far, it seemed. Standing against them, poor devils like Somerset could not rise at all.

York nodded at last, satisfied. He took up his own quill and dipped it, adding his name to the end of the list and continuing on in decorative swirls, showing his pleasure.

It was too early to declare for the throne, Salisbury had convinced him of that. Too many of the king’s noblemen would take up arms without a second thought, the moment a usurper made himself known. Step by step, the path lay ahead of him, if he chose to walk it. The life of a newborn was a delicate thing. York had lost five of his own to distempers and chills.

He smiled at the scribe setting lead weights on the corners of the scroll. As Protector, the Great Seal of the throne of England was his to use, the final stage. Four common men had stood by for the entire discussion, heads bowed and waiting for the part they had to play. When York nodded to them, they approached the table, laying out the two halves of the silver Seal and collecting a bowl of wax from where it had been warmed to liquid over a tiny brazier. All the men there watched as the Royal Seal clicked together and the image of King Henry on his throne was covered over in blue wax. One of the men, the Chaff-wax, used a small knife to trim the disk as it formed and began to cool, while another laid lengths of ribbon on the document itself. It was the work of skilled craftsmen and those present watched with interest as the warm disk was upturned and pressed onto the parchment, staining the page with oil. The halves were lifted away and a thin four-inch medal of wax remained, pressed down onto the ribbons until it could not be removed without ripping the paper or breaking the seal itself.

It was done. The bearers of the Seal busied themselves clearing away the tools of their trade, placing the silver halves back into silk bags and then a locked box of the same polished metal. After bowing to the Protector, they trooped out in silence, their part finished.

York rose, clapping his hands together. “There is a child made Prince of Wales, heir to the throne. My lords, I am proud of England today, as proud as a father of his own son.”

He looked to Somerset, his eyes bright. Even then, Somerset might have ignored it if one of the others hadn’t laughed aloud. Stung, the earl dropped his hand to his sword’s hilt, facing York across the table.

“Explain your meaning, Richard. If you have the courage to accuse a man of dishonor and treason, do so clearly, without French games.”

York smiled more widely, shaking his head.

“You mistake me, Edmund. Let your choler bleed away! This is a day of joy, with King Henry’s line secured.”

“No,” Somerset replied, his voice deepening and growing hoarse. He was forty-eight years old, but he had not grown weak or stooped as his hair grayed. He rose slowly from his chair with his shoulders squared, his anger pushing him on. “I believe I will have satisfaction, Richard. If you would speak false rumors, you must also defend them. God and my right arm shall surely decide the outcome. Now apologize and beg my forgiveness, or I will see you tomorrow dawn, in the yard outside.”

If not for the table between them, he might have drawn and struck at York then and there. Others in the room touched their own hilts nervously, ready to act. York kept his own hands away from his sword, knowing he was in reach of a sudden lunge and that Somerset was damnably quick. Carefully, he too came to his feet.

“You threaten the Protector and Defender of the Realm,” York replied. His voice had grown soft in warning, though he still smiled, unable to hide his delight at this course of events. “Take your hand off your sword.”

“I have said I will have satisfaction,” Somerset grated in reply, his face flushing.

York chuckled, though the tension in the room made it sound false.

“You are mistaken, but your threat is a crime I cannot forgive. Guards!” He raised his voice at the end, startling those around him. Two heavyset men entered on the instant, drawing blades as soon as they saw the rigid scene before them. York addressed the parliamentary soldiers without looking away from Somerset for an instant.

“Arrest Lord Somerset. He has threatened the person of the Protector. I’m sure investigation will reveal some deeper plot against the throne and those who serve it.”

Somerset moved at last, drawing his sword in one smooth motion and lunging over the width of the table with it. His reach was extraordinary and York threw himself back, crashing into the wall behind him so that dry plaster rained down in spirals from the ceiling. In wonder, he raised a hand to his face and looked at the fingers, half expecting to see blood. Yet the guards had lurched for Somerset even as he moved, grappling him and spoiling his blow. As he struggled, they took his sword and jerked his arm behind his back, making him growl in pain.

“You fool, Edmund,” York said, his own anger swelling. “You will be taken from here along the Thames to the Tower. I do not think I shall see you again, while charges are prepared. I will send news of your arrest to the queen, in Windsor. I do not doubt she will be distraught to lose one so
very
well loved.”

Somerset was dragged away, still roaring and struggling. York wiped sweat from his forehead. He waved a hand at the parchment on the table.

“Have that taken to Windsor, to be read and given to King Henry. God knows, he will not hear the words, but it must be done, even so.”

York gathered himself then, raising his head and striding out into the warm air of Westminster Palace. The other lords traipsed out behind him without a word.

—

B
ARON
E
GREMONT
RODE
HARD
at the Neville center. He knew only too well that he was utterly committed to destroying the wedding party. Even with the Percy arms scrubbed out or covered, his archers had drawn first blood and gone on to kill half a dozen of the Neville knights and men-at-arms. No quiet withdrawal would be allowed after that, no second chance. He could see Earl Salisbury’s fury written on his face as Egremont cantered in. The Neville earl was surrounded by his best warriors, swinging his sword left and right as he pointed with it and yelled to alter the formation. Thomas guided his horse straight at the older man, his shield and sword feeling light in his hands. He had trained for this. He had brought seven hundred against less than a third as many. He would have them down before the sun reached noon.

All along the line, Percy and Neville horsemen crashed against each other and through, whipping past in thumping blows that left one or both reeling and dazed. It was a frightening moment for the Percy knights, as they struck and were carried on by their own speed, shoved away from those who rode with them. Horses slowed against the solid mass of Neville men and suddenly Percy warriors were at a standstill, hacking and blocking, their mounts kicking out at anyone milling around their legs.

Thomas slashed wildly at the first Neville knight he faced. The man dodged so sharply that his sword glanced across a plate, scoring a spiral shaving of bright metal. Thomas yelped as his left leg was struck with a clang, instantly numb as he slid past the man he was trying to kill. He heard the knight’s growled curse, but neither of them could turn back. Two more faced Thomas and, beyond them, he could see Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury.

“Balion, strike afore!” Thomas roared, feeling his huge horse bunch under him as it responded. It had taken him almost a year to train the animal not to rear to its full height, as it might have done against another stallion. Instead, Balion rose and lunged almost in the same moment, barely leaving the ground before its front hooves punched out against the horses ahead.