Margaret of Anjou (34 page)

Scouts were racing ahead of her four thousand, carrying the news. Margaret told herself not to worry, but she saw the laird they followed ease his horse across the line of marching men, heading toward her.

Andrew Douglas could speak both French and English, though he would mutter in Gaelic at the same time, almost as if he carried on a conversation with himself. She did not know his formal position at the court of the Scottish king, though Mary had said she trusted him. The laird was large and solid, one of the few who had chosen to ride, though he controlled his horse with main force rather than any grace or delicacy. He seemed to glare at her as his habitual expression, though Margaret knew in part it was the great hairiness of him, a beard that could have hidden a bird’s nest, combined with thick black hair to his shoulders and bristling eyebrows. Beyond his nose and a patch of exposed skin high on his cheeks, the Douglas gazed out from thickets, his blue eyes always shadowed. He was respectful enough in her presence, though his Gaelic murmuring may not have been, for all she knew.

“My lady, it’s best I halt the men, before they frighten the hounds, if you follow,” he said, adding a low undertone of words she did not know. “I’ll need to find a good place for them to rest, near a river—upstream of those lads below, so there’ll be no drinking their pesh.”

Margaret blinked at him, feeling she might not have understood his exact meaning, but not willing to ask him to repeat himself. For someone with French as her first language, she found the Scottish accent almost impossible at times. She inclined her head to the general idea and he shouted to the men around him in his own language, so that they stopped and unbuckled their swords and axes. Margaret began to worry once again.

“Why are they arming themselves, Andrew? There are no enemies here.”

“It’s just their way, my lady. They like to hold iron when the English are close. It’s just their habit, pay it no mind.”

Margaret called her son, watching fondly as he kicked his mount on, red-faced at the gaze of so many on him until he reached her side, panting and beaming. In the distance, perhaps three dozen men had gathered outside the ranks of the army awaiting them, raising banners as they approached at a light trot.

“That is the Duke of Somerset, there,” Margaret said, turning to the laird.

“Aye, and Earl Percy,” he replied. “We know his flags well enough.”

“And I am grateful that the honor of your queen and her son will mean there is to be no fighting between you,” Margaret said firmly.

To her surprise, he laughed.

“Oh, we understand a truce—and who our allies are. If you knew a little more of the clans, you’d know to trust these lads.”

Despite his reassurance, Margaret found herself growing nervous as the riders approached. She felt a wave of relief to see Derry Brewer riding alongside them, his delight visible.

As the most senior lord, Somerset was the first to dismount and drop to one knee before Margaret, followed quickly by Earl Percy and Baron Clifford. The rest of the men stood in silence while their masters greeted the queen and her son, watching the ranks of Scots warriors with cold expressions and one hand on their sword hilts.

“Your Highness, you are a joy to see,” Somerset said as he rose. “Prince Edward, I give you welcome.”

“I can only wonder at the price you must have paid for such a number of men, my lady,” Henry Percy added, frowning. “I pray it will not be too great a burden.” The young earl had the Percy beak, Margaret noted, that great wedge of a nose that dominated his face and made him look like a younger version of his father.

“I believe that is the business of the Crown, my lord Percy,” she replied tartly, making him flush. “Now, I must introduce Lord Douglas, commander to these fine warriors.”

Earl Percy sensed hostility as Andrew Douglas approached. The Scot made a point of showing his empty palm and then took Percy’s hand as if he was granting a great concession. When he had his hand back, the earl turned away from him, staring in disapproval over the rabble of Scots, his mouth twisting as he gnawed an ulcer inside his lip. Margaret could see Derry Brewer was watching the exchange in amusement.

“I have marked a camp, just a little way off the main force,” Somerset said, frowning at the tension in the air. “Lord Douglas, you and your men will take the left flank, if we are attacked, close by Clifford and my own men.”

“And where will you stand, Lord Percy?” Andrew Douglas asked innocently.

“On the
right
flank,” Percy replied immediately, color deepening on his cheeks. “My men and yours have a long history and scores that will not be settled here.” His voice and expression hardened subtly. “I do not expect any trouble at all—I have said the same to my captains. I must, of course, forbid any entry to the city by your men. I have already given that assurance to the city council.”

“We accept your terms, my lord,” Douglas replied. “God forbid we should ever frighten the people of York.” The Scot muttered something else under his breath that made Percy darken almost to purple.

Margaret wondered if the earl understood the strange, liquid tongue, after guarding the borders for so long against men just like her four thousand. She took a moment to offer up a silent prayer that she had not brought wolves among the lambs.

“Your Highness,” Somerset said, breaking her concentration. “With your permission, I have allocated rooms for you to rest in the city, in a good street. Baron Clifford has agreed to show these men their place.”

Andrew Douglas chuckled at that, enjoying some meaning that may or may not have been intended. Before she could be guided away, Margaret dismounted and embraced the Scot, surprising them all so that every man froze and stared into the middle distance.

“Thank you for bringing me home, Andrew. Whatever your reasons, I am grateful to you and to your men. They are fine lads.”

She left the Scotsman almost as deeply red as Earl Percy, staring after her. Derry Brewer helped the queen to mount once again. He was grinning as he swung up to the saddle of Retribution and they trotted away, taking half the assembled nobles and bannermen with them. Above them all, rain started to fall once again, hard enough to sting the faces of those who looked up and groaned.

C
hristmas had come and gone on the road, one of the strangest York and Salisbury had ever spent, away from their families. Though they were marching north to war, neither man could ignore the day of Christ’s birth, even if their men would have let them and not considered such an act the worst omen possible.

The presence of eight thousand soldiers descending on his diocese had astonished the Bishop of Lincoln and been far too many even for that vast cathedral on its hill. Huge numbers of men had packed in good-naturedly around the local congregation, while the rest huddled outside, looking up in awe at the tallest spire in England. For once, the rain gave the men a respite. There was no wind at all and the cold deepened, so that the city sparkled in frost and those outside were quickly shivering and blowing on their hands. For a few hours of silence and muffled hymns being sung, it seemed as if the whole world held its breath.

They had lost almost two days cutting across country to the cathedral, but York could see the experience had refreshed the men, so that they walked with less of a load on their shoulders. No doubt many of them had confessed their sins into that vast and frozen stillness, asking to be forgiven so that, if they died, they had at least a chance of reaching heaven. He had done the same himself and in that moment, as he knelt, he had been thankful the king’s death did not lie on his soul. It would have been too much to bear, too much to forgive.

It had surprised York to find he was enjoying the slow journey north. The Roman roads were solid flags of stone leading through moors and dense forests of oak and birch and ash. The marching soldiers strode to the top of hills and could see for miles across a dark green landscape before descending into forested valleys and pounding on.

The rain and blustering wind had been almost incessant, dripping through the trees on either side of the road, dampening the spirits of the men and making their clothes and cloaks as heavy as armor. Yet when York breathed in, it was air he had known before, sometimes driven hard into his lungs. All the politics and problems of London fell behind and he was enjoying the company of Salisbury, with no more concern than putting a good number of miles behind them each day. Food was scarce and after eight days of eating little, York could pat his stomach and take pleasure from the trim muscle, losing some of the thickness that had bedeviled the previous few years. He felt strong and alert, so much so that it was almost a shame to be taking his men against a hostile army. For all the goodwill he felt, that fact lay over his best moods like a shroud.

He and Salisbury had picked up another four hundred men from their own estates as they passed close to them, often single manors long owned by their families and restored after the Attainders had been revoked. York’s second son, Edmund, Earl of Rutland, had been among them, seventeen and as proud as the devil to have the chance to march and fight at his father’s side. Edmund did not have the height or massive frame of his elder brother, but he resembled his father with black hair and dark eyes and stood an inch taller than York. His father greeted his arrival with a shout of joy, though in private, he told Salisbury it felt like Cecily had her eyes on him, through the boy.

York and Salisbury used any spare mounts as scout horses, placing men back along the roads to London and west toward the borders of Wales. Others rode ten miles ahead of them in groups of three riders at a time, so that at least one would survive an ambush and be able to race back. In hostile country, it was the merest sense to have far-ranging riders out before them, like dragonflies swinging back and forth at all hours, taking orders and passing on news of the land ahead. Each day extended the lines, so that when Warwick returned to London in the south, that news was six days old by the time it reached Salisbury. Warwick was coming north behind them with the men of Kent, drawn from their families and grumbling the whole way, judging by the few terse lines he sent to his father.

Edward of March was even more laconic, when his message reached them. He reported nothing from Ludlow Castle, simply acknowledging that he was in position and passing on his mother’s love. York had smiled to himself as he read the single line signed “E. March,” imagining his son torn between the responsibility of leading an army, all the while enduring his mother’s instructions. Nonetheless, York was satisfied. They were all out. Despite the rain and the dark and the cold, he had three armies in the field, ready to crush any forces Queen Margaret might have raised. He was almost ready to bless his enemies for gathering in one place, even in winter, where he could break them all at once. The year was ending and York felt the rightness of it. By the time spring came, he would have all England under his hand.

He thought then of a lonely young man in the bishop’s palace, no doubt reading by his lamp. York shook his head to free it of the image. Henry’s fate was a knot untied and he knew he was not finished with the king. Yet for the moment, he would look only ahead.

Having scouts so far out meant it was impossible for York and Salisbury to be surprised. Neither man saw anything unusual in the galloping squire lashing his reins back and forth to drive his flagging horse back to their ranks. As they’d passed the town of Sheffield, seat of the Earl of Shrewsbury, York had entered lands he knew particularly well, from childhood on. The great city of York lay just two days to the north and he felt like he’d come home. His men allowed the scout through as they had done many times before. Most had nothing new to report and York greeted him with a smile as the young man dismounted and bowed. The scout was oddly pale and wet with perspiration, but York merely raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to settle himself.

“My lord, there is a great host by the city of York, ahead. An army such as I have never seen.”

They were passing through a stretch of dark woodland, the road just a broken thread with half the stones missing. Trees encroached on both sides, sometimes growing right through the Roman slabs. York saw Salisbury turn his horse back, coming close enough to hear.

“It seems this young man has found our quarry,” York said, forcing lightness into his voice. “Where are your companions?”

“My lord, I-I don’t know. We saw they had their own scouts out and after that it was all fast riding. I lost sight of them.” Without conscious thought, the young man patted the neck of his mount with a trembling hand, the animal lathered with long strings of spit flung back from the muzzle.

“How close did you come before you turned back?” York asked. To his surprise, the young man flushed, as if his courage had been questioned. “Just tell me what you saw.” He and Salisbury had made a point of choosing only scouts who could count, or at least estimate large numbers. York watched impatiently as the young man twitched his fingers and muttered under his breath.

“They were in three battles, my lord. Three big squares, camped by the city. Each one was near s-six thousand men, if I’m any judge. A little less, perhaps, but I would say they had eighteen thousand, all told.”

York swallowed, feeling a shudder run down his back. He had faced almost as many at Ludlow, but the king’s nobles had lost thousands since then, as well as the leadership of men like Buckingham and Egremont. He felt a touch of despair at the thought of such a host. The queen and her noblemen seemed to raise armies like swarms of locusts wherever they went. York glanced at Salisbury and saw the older man glowering at him. The king’s name was a powerful aid to recruitment, in his absence, or more likely because of it. York did not meet Salisbury’s eyes, thinking hard as the scout stared.

“They’ll know we are coming if the scouts crossed,” Salisbury said suddenly. “How long ago was this?”

The young squire seemed relieved to look away from the pain on York’s face.

“I saw them yesterday morning, my lord. I had to take a wide line to get past the riders coming after me, but it cannot be more than twenty, maybe thirty miles. I do not go out further.”

“And they’ve had a full day to come south, if they marched as soon as our scouts were seen.”

“No,” York said. “We have other scouts at six and twelve miles. None of them have come back in with sightings. The queen’s army has not moved, or at least not quickly.”

“It is too many, Richard, even so,” Salisbury said softly.

York glared at him, taking a moment to dismiss the panting scout and order another out in his path. He needed his dragonflies more than ever at that moment, with such a multitude out against him.

“No, it’s not,” York said firmly. “Even if winter stole the heart from half the Kentish men, Warwick will bring six thousand—or many more. My son has three thousand with him.” York spoke dully, thinking through the odds.

If he called Edward back, there would be no one on the Welsh border to stand against the Tudors. Everything depended on how many marched with Warwick—and how far away they were. York cursed softly to himself, and Salisbury nodded.

“We need a stronghold,” Salisbury said. “Somewhere safe while we wait. Middleham is too far and too small for eight thousand men.”

“Sandal, then,” York said. “It lies no more than four leagues from where we stand.”

“And it may have been passed already, by the queen’s army,” Salisbury said. “I’d rather go west or north, perhaps back to Ludlow, even.”

“They’d run us down before we reached it.” York rubbed his face hard, as if to bring some life back to his flesh. “And I will not tempt fate to repeat itself. No. None of our other scouts have come in. We can reach Sandal Castle. It’s an island almost, a fortress on a hill and simple to defend. It will do.”

“I do not like the risk,” Salisbury said firmly. “You’d have me head straight toward an enemy of twice our number.”

He started in surprise when York laughed and breathed in sharply, filling his chest.

“I am
home
. They have made me march through storms and rain and I am only stronger for all of it. This year is ending—and this last, great hunt with it. Sandal is just a few miles away. I do not fear your ‘risk,’ or the movements of my enemies, no matter how many they have brought.” York shook his head in saturnine amusement. “I will
not
run. Not today, or any day. Being forced to leave Ludlow was enough for one lifetime. I tell you, they will not see my back again.”

His eyes were cold as he waited for a reply, wondering if Salisbury would continue to argue, while time they needed drained away.

“Four leagues to Sandal? You are certain? Twelve miles?” Salisbury said at last. York smiled at his friend.

“No more than that, I swear it. I used to ride from York to the market in Sheffield when I was a boy, traveling with your father. I
know
these lands. We’ll be safe within Sandal’s walls before the sun even begins to set.”

“Then increase the pace,” Salisbury replied. “We cannot make the sun stand still.”

—

T
HE
ARMY CAMPED
outside the city of York was the largest Derry Brewer had ever seen, just about. Even so, he continued to fret, worrying at an infected scratch on a finger with his teeth, pressing against the hot flesh and spitting when bitterness seeped into his mouth. Storm clouds lay above the vast fields of tents and men, all suffering in the constant damp. They had dug trenches for their waste, only to see them flood on a single night of heavy rain, producing a stream of filth that ran through the camp, mingling with standing water. Sickness was spreading through them as well, so that at any moment, there would be a few hundred men groaning as they emptied their bowels with their hose or Gallic breeches down by their ankles. For some reason, the Scots were suffering worse than the other men, reduced to misery by the strange purge and as weak as children while it burned through them.

Derry dismounted at the edge of the queen’s pavilion, the largest single structure on the plain. He passed the reins of Retribution to a servant, taking a moment to explain the horse’s desperate desire for a wizened winter apple, if such a thing could be found. Derry showed the boy a silver penny as a promise and went in to the war council, hearing the voices of Margaret and her lords while he was still paces away.

Inside, the noise of rain was much louder. The tent leaked in a dozen places, dripping into pots in dull tones and making the air thick with moisture. Field braziers stood on soaked groundcloth, raising wisps of mist and adding the pungent smoke of charcoal and crackling green wood to the atmosphere. Derry draped his cloak along a bench, almost unnoticed as he left it to dry and came to listen.

Lord Clifford was in the middle of the discussion, a short, fine-boned man with a delicate mustache that would need trimming every single day to keep its shape. Though Clifford was only one of a dozen minor barons in that multitude, he had been brazen in using his father’s death at St. Albans with men like Somerset and Percy. For that shared loss, they had granted Clifford a seat at their table and authority far beyond whatever was merited by his rank.

Derry didn’t like the man, at all. The young baron had a tendency to talk over him, as if his opinion was utterly worthless. It would always have been hard to respect such a man but, as it happened, Derry had made no special effort to learn the trick of it.