Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors (24 page)

A small breeze had sprung up, giving them hope that the mists would be driven off as they marched back towards the battle. The sense of being enclosed had grown worse, making it oddly hard to breathe for some so that they panted even as they walked, like bellows working.

Oxford himself took a spot in the second rank, riding along in pride beside a dozen other men. He congratulated those he knew and in truth they had reason to be proud. All he desired that morning was a chance to strike at one of the sons of York. Failing that, Oxford hoped to strike the false king’s baggage or reserve. Best of all would be the rear of Edward’s centre square. That would be an answer to prayers and there was a good chance of it. Oxford knew his men were a mile behind the battlefield. He had to keep a tight rein to stop his horse prancing out, the animal sensing his excitement.

‘Look for the Sun in Flames!’ he called to his men. ‘Pass word as you sight the enemy!’ His own family badge was a gold ‘estoile’, a star with six wavy rays. His men wore it in badges of pewter as well as on the great banners swinging on
poles above them. He considered how similar it was to Edward’s symbol. Both flames and rays of light could burn.

Oxford heard sharp cries of fear and confusion sound ahead of him, though he did not understand them. His duty was to come back to the battle and he would not shirk it after a single successful action. He urged his men to press on, even as the air suddenly filled with arrows and some of those around him went falling in great crashes.

‘Treachery!’ he heard called ahead, the cry taken up by panicky voices. Oxford dug in his spurs, sending new blood dribbling. His horse sprang forward, knocking his own men down in his urgency.

‘What is this shout? What treachery?’ he called to his captains. They could only shrug in the mist, but the cry went on, loud and repeated. ‘Treachery! Traitors!’

‘Who is that man? Who calls? Oxford here! Oxfords!’ His captains shouted his name again and again, but there was a great tumult ahead and all Oxford could do was press on to reach it.

The rain of arrows dwindled away and he saw his men were slaughtering a mass of archers.

‘God, let these be the York reserves,’ Oxford breathed to himself. He had done wonders that day. He could yet do more. There was no understanding the cries of traitor and treachery that were growing louder with every moment. He strained to see through the mists and then sagged in his saddle with a sense of dawning horror.

The entire battle had turned as he had reformed his ranks by Barnet. The wheeling lines had spun around in slow, trudging labour. Instead of the rear of York, Oxford’s men had charged the very centre of Warwick’s armies, his own side. Oxford saw Montagu’s banner fall and still his own men were lunging forward, disappearing into the mists,
unable to stop though some cried out and waved their arms in denial.

The effect of Montagu crashing down was that Warwick’s entire centre wavered – and Edward of York drove right through the heart of it in the confusion. He had been given a single chance and he did not hesitate. His men formed a wide spear formation and hacked and battered their way through already panicking Oxfords and Montagus, not knowing where or how to pull themselves away from the murderous embrace of their own kin.

Warwick heard a long, hoarse roar somewhere ahead of him, like waves breaking on a shingle beach. The cursed mists made it impossible to know where he should strike with his reserves, but the moment had surely come. He had six thousand men, fresh and unmarked, ready at his word.

‘Forward to the centre,’ he called. His order and his army. He could not spare a thought for the fate of his brother John where the fighting seemed thickest. Whenever the mists swirled, Warwick turned his head and stared as far as he could before the clinging whiteness seeped back and left him with whatever he had glimpsed. The right wing had been cut to pieces by Gloucester. Warwick could see fast-moving ranks closing on his flank as he tried to bolster the centre. It was a brutal decision, but he was putting his men in the way of a dual attack.

‘Spears to the flank! Repel … the flank! Raise pikes and spears there!’ His serjeants took up the order. It was all he could do, to present a bristling edge to those who might try and overwhelm it. The centre had to hold or Warwick knew it was finished and had all been for nothing.

He drew his sword as he felt a tremble run through the ranks ahead of him. For all their fresh strength, they knew
they were being hit along the flank and in time would be enveloped at the rear. No fighting men faced that prospect unmoved, but they drove on. They could not run while Montagu’s square was being ripped apart in front of them.

Line by line, Warwick’s reserve made their way through to the centre, while others stumbled past them, dying or holding some wound so terrible it drained them white. Over on the wing, Gloucester’s victorious companies roared through the last of Exeter’s men and fell on the fresher wing of the reserves. In that moment, Warwick could see Edward high on his horse in battered armour, his visor raised and his banner of the Sun in Flames flapping behind him. The young king did not seem to see his old friend.

Warwick hacked down against anyone that moved. In slow step, he went forward in a line of knights, forcing their way through with sheer power and ferocity. Some of those who went down looked up to see a horse passing over and lunged cruelly, even as they died themselves. There was no limit to the spite and rage released on that field.

Warwick’s horse lurched and he felt it lean, swinging quickly out of the saddle before it could fall and trap him. He staggered as he reached the ground and crashed against a stranger, armed with a pointed billhook blade bound to an axe-handle. Warwick punched out with a metal gauntlet, but the man ducked under the blow and smashed the billhook into his side with savage strength. It jammed in the plates there and the man wrenched at it, tearing Warwick deeply so that he groaned. Unable to find his sword, he punched and punched until the man’s face was a ruin, then went down on to one knee, panting hard, though it did not feel as if he could take a breath.

The battle went on all around him, a clamour of screaming and metal. Warwick shook his head, seeing blood drip
from his mouth as he looked down at the ground. He knew then that death was close and with a huge effort, he tried to stand.

He pressed a hand into his side, where it ran with blood. The pain was growing worse there, opening into him like acid or flame. He coughed and spattered his gauntlet with red. He could feel himself choking and he was suddenly afraid as he looked around. His gaze alighted on his sword where it had fallen and he took one unsteady pace and snatched it up. With fading strength, he plunged it into the ground before him and rested one arm on it. Warwick knelt then on the torn grass and choked until there was no more breath in him. He saw Edward ride triumphantly through the centre, routing the rest of his army. It was magnificent. Warwick’s hand slipped from his sword and he fell.

When the last of the fighting had come to an end and the rags of Warwick’s forces had fled the field, Edward of York walked the battlefield with his two brothers, to see the lines they had written across the Great North Road and the cost of it. The mists had thinned at last as the sun rose. Some of the men looked up to see if it danced, as their mothers had told them it might. It was Easter Sunday morning and church bells rang out across the fields from Barnet, long and sonorous.

Edward’s eyes were dry and red when he came upon Warwick’s body. He knelt by him and Richard and George joined him. They said a goodbye and a prayer to a man who had been like a father to them in many ways. Yet Richard Neville had chosen to stand on the other side of a battlefield and earned himself a hard death. After a time, Edward stood once again, looking down.

‘I do not regret it,’ he said to Richard. ‘I will be a burning
brand to them, as I said. Oxford escaped me, that is my only regret.’

‘What now?’ George asked, looking down at the body of his wife’s father.

‘I will have Warwick and Montagu shown in London under guard. I’ll have no tales spreading that they live yet and will restore Lancaster. You know how people are.’

‘Then drawn and quartered as traitors?’ Richard asked, looking up. His brother shook his head.

‘No. I might for Montagu, but not for Warwick. He was … a good man. I’ll send his body back to the Nevilles for them to bury.’ He fell silent for a time then and neither of his brothers interrupted.

‘I said I would make an ending,’ Edward murmured. He raised his head, his eyes bright. ‘And I will. They drove me out. I will not hold back now, whoever they send against me.’

Margaret rubbed her forehead, feeling the attar of roses smear under her fingertips. She looked at her fingers and saw a faint white smudge. When she had been young, she had possessed a physical discipline she could only barely recall in her forties, an ability to suffer any itch or discomfort without raising her hand to ruin the powders and oils on her skin. Not that she had even needed concealing pigments then, she thought ruefully. She had assumed it would always be so, but age had taken that as well, so that her own body betrayed her in its lack of control.

It was a cruel thing to be asked to face a man like Edward of York, still shy of thirty, still in the last bloom of his youth. She had been strong enough to bring his father down. The sons had undone that extraordinary victory, picking it apart with teeth and swords. She felt a sting where her nails dug into her palms and opened her hands to see fading red marks.

‘Are we certain this is not some ruse?’ Somerset demanded. ‘Some … story to frighten those who might support us yet? By God, Warwick had
twenty thousand
men!’

The duke still looked incredulous, Margaret saw, all his plans broken into shards before they were begun. Her son stared off at nothing and the stranger who had come to her merely stood and waited for Margaret to give him orders.

Margaret was nervous around this unknown man, thin as a corpse, though the fellow had introduced himself with a secret phrase Derry Brewer had given her years before. Leo of Aldwych seemed a much more solemn man than his
predecessor. He certainly knew he had brought terrible news, of the death of Warwick and Montagu, just when Margaret and her son needed them most to have won.

Margaret had still not dared to consider all the implications of the man’s presence. She had thought Derry Brewer dead once before and she could not bear the thought of the reality. If Derry had gone as well as Warwick and Montagu, she might as well send one of her precious pigeons back to Paris for another ship to take her away.

If Margaret had returned from France alone, she honestly thought she might have done. Wherever her husband lay his head was where he could stay, after ten years apart. With all the changes he had suffered, Henry was as much a stranger as Derry Brewer’s man. Yet her
son
deserved a chance – and a life that was more than just frustration and failure. She had promised the world to him, after all.

Margaret was nervous too around Somerset, as one who had lost his father and older brother in defence of King Henry and the house of Lancaster. He paced up and down, his hands clenched at the small of his back. In truth, the man seemed to have such a personal desire for vengeance as to eclipse her own cause. Somerset wanted to see York burn. She thought he did not much care who would sit the throne after that.

‘If the news is true, my lord,’ Margaret ventured, ‘can we go on?’

Somerset stopped his pacing and approached her, his eyes as cold as the hands he pressed against hers.

‘My lady, London is very far from here. The news of Warwick is three days old already – and that from a man who broke his mounts to bring it as fast as he could. It will not reach Cornwall and Devon or Dorset and Hampshire – Sussex even, though it lies closer to London, not for days more. In
your son’s name, I can send word and raise an army. The men of York must have taken grievous losses when they faced Warwick at Barnet. They cannot have any great force to muster, at least for a time.’ He spoke faster, his excitement building. ‘They must have wounded who cannot fight again – and others who will be bruised and battered, a mere remnant of a fighting force. If we are swift, Your Highness, if we are ruthless, I believe we might honour Warwick’s memory by finishing his work.’

To Margaret’s surprise, the spy stepped closer then and bowed.

‘The count of great numbers has ever been muddled, my lady. It is not as though an army is ever considerate enough to walk past one of my lads while he tallies them on a board or puts pebbles in a jar. Yet I do trust the fellow who told me Edward of York lost two thousand men or even more at Barnet. York must be weaker now, despite his victory. He has only eight thousand
at most
beneath his banners. If you could raise as many in short time, I believe my Lord Somerset says it rightly. You could yet bring him down.’

‘I have some twelve hundred now,’ Somerset said. ‘I expect two hundred more under Baron Wenlock, perhaps as early as tomorrow. He will not let us down.’

‘You think I’ll find the rest of those I need here in the south?’ Margaret asked with a brittle smile. ‘Shall I send recruiting serjeants with boys to bang a drum in every seaside town and village? While Edward sweeps down against me, with blood still bright on his hands?’ She made her decision then, as her son turned to watch her. In time, such orders would be his to give, but not then, not on that day.

‘I feel the sea at my back, my lord Somerset. Gather what men you have with you and be ready to march north. How far from here is Wales? I found an army there before. I have
friends there still, though God knows they are not what they once were.’

‘Wales, my lady?’ Somerset said. He rubbed his chin and made his own fast decision, nodding sharply. ‘For your son, of course.’

‘My son who is the Prince of Wales, yes, my lord,’ Margaret confirmed with cool calm. ‘Prince among those who always supported Lancaster over York. Wales is where we will find our army. Let them just see my son, tall and strong. They will take up our banners once again.’

‘Bristol has rejected York before as well, my lady,’ Leo of Aldwych added. ‘It is but sixty miles from the coast or thereabouts. There is no harm in banging the drum there – nor in Yeovil and Bath for that matter. You could make a stop in those places – and from Bristol, cross to Wales by ship.’

‘I will have an army to march beside you by then, my lady, I swear it,’ Somerset replied, frowning at a man he had no intention of trusting. ‘You’d need hundreds of ships and not just the fishing vessels you’d find there. No, you’ll need to go further to one of the great crossings of the River Severn – the toll bridge at Gloucester perhaps, or the ford at Tewkesbury.’

‘If I can reach Wales,’ Margaret said, ‘I will take a long summer in the hills to raise a great host for my son to lead. That is my path – and yours, Edward. If you can make a victory then, you can restore Lancaster, over the bones of York. Like the Black Prince before you, all Wales will know you as the rightful heir. No more rebellions and usurping traitors. No more sudden marches and battles that have plagued us all for so long. Just peace, gentlemen, with the ploughboy and his maid, with the busy cities and all the priests and merchants and sailors and lords. All unmarked by war, all unbowed and unscarred.’

‘It is a … grand dream, Mother,’ her son said dubiously. He was seventeen and had prepared for that very war his entire life. To have his mother wish it all away and look ahead to beer and apples before he had even set foot on the field of battle was somewhat vexing.

‘Wales though,’ Edward said with a smile. ‘It would please me to see the land that calls me its prince.’

‘Very well,’ Somerset said, his gloom lessening. ‘Yeovil and Bath and Bristol lie on our route, while I send word to all loyal men. “Lancaster stands and calls to England” – that is the word to send, to cry out. My lady, I do not think those ploughboys will let the Welsh overmatch them for their loyalty. You will see, I swear it.’

‘Oh, my lord, I have heard so
many
oaths,’ Margaret replied. ‘I knew your brother well and your father. They were men of honour – and their word was good. It was not enough in the end. I believe I have had enough of oaths, my lord,’ Margaret said. ‘Instead, show me deeds.’

Edward brooded as he sat in the spring sunshine. Windsor Castle was ever at its best in the drowsing warm and he had happy memories of hunts and great feasts there. Perhaps that was why he licked dry lips and considered the oaths and promises he had made. Warwick had fallen. It was still not something he could quite believe. How could that man, with so much cleverness in him, somehow not be in the world? How was it possible? It nagged at him, as if he had forgotten something and with just the right word, he could bring them all back. He missed his father still. He missed his younger brother Edmund, raised to an angelic presence by the smoothing iron of memory. He could not call them back, no matter what regrets ached like broken teeth and made him shiver and draw in his breath.

In the days since, Edward had not allowed himself a single frothing cup of ale, though every part of him had yearned for it. Instead, he had grown surly and snapped at those in attendance on him, until his brother Richard had ridden off to Middleham to take the news of Warwick’s death to the man’s wife. Clarence had gone home to an uncertain welcome from Warwick’s daughter. Edward wished them both luck. His own wife was oddly cold to him and the truth was he had not won the peace and calm he had expected. Perhaps he expected too much from a single victory. By the saints, it was better than having lost! He was troubled still and though he was bright with sweat from the training yard, it had not brought the sense of joy he imagined he would find in a jug of warm froth. He licked his lips once again, though they were cracked and sore.

He slept without nightmares, he reminded himself. His stomach no longer sent him scrabbling for the chamber pot under the bed. He was healthier than he could remember being in all his life and … still, his mind felt too sharp, or as a piece of cloth with a cat’s claw dragging at it. A healthy life was not a happy life, that was the simple truth of it, at least for a man with his blood and his ambition. Edward knew he had not been made to follow, nor to live quietly. He was loud and strong, with a look that made other knights want to examine the ground by their feet. Some women found him infuriating almost on sight, while others … well, the way he was had some advantages.

Yet he could not break his oath. His men had drunk themselves stupid after the battle, of course. He could not deny them and would have looked a fool and a curmudgeon if he had tried. Lord Rivers had upended a great cask of ale and spilled far more down himself than had ever reached his throat. He’d passed out not long after, reeking.

Edward found a piece of his lower lip had come away as a shred of flesh. He gnawed and worried at it, pleased to have anything to take his mind from its usual concern. He was not a weak man, he knew it. The idea that anything or anyone could be his master made him itch. Yet the danger came when he did it to himself, when he threw up his hands and decided not to be strong, not to endure.

Margaret had landed, with her son. That news had focused his thoughts and somehow brought his thirst to the surface. Of all the God-given drinks, from wine to help a man sleep, or ale to make him laugh, the spirit made from grain mash was the one he missed most. The Romans had called it
aqua vitae
, the Scots
uisge beatha
– the ‘water of life’. Whatever name they used, it brought Edward to a clear and steady concentration. It allowed him to talk and talk for hours, and when it was time to sleep, he just slept. The following day was not such a fine thing, but he was used to pain, as his brother Richard said. A life without pain was like beef without salt, without savour.

He wondered what Margaret’s son looked like, after ten years. King Edward of York had been a mere Earl of March when that boy had last set foot in England.

Edward knew he had run wild after his father’s death. He did not speak of that year, even with his brothers. Warwick had been his friend then and Edward had drunk enough whisky and wine to kill some men. More than a few of those events were just gone from his memory, as if some other wight had lived them instead of him.

He found himself dwelling too long on the drunken stupor of those violent months. He had not washed the blood off his armour, he recalled, standing. It had flaked away in the end, like paint.

With the spring sun coming through the high windows,
Edward began to pace, raising his head when a child started to cry, somewhere close. His son. His heir. He smiled at that, crossing himself in silent prayer for the boy’s health. Edward could only hope his son would rule in peace when his time came. A dynasty begun in war could become a ruling family. It had been so before and his was not a lesser line, not any longer.

As he paced, an image came to him of the huge flask of rough red wine that he knew sat on the dresser just inside the kitchen door below. He could see it and it was the strangest thing. He knew it was the rudest stuff, used in cooking, almost vinegar, yet the very thought of it made his mouth pucker and sting, as if he would have chosen it at that moment over any fine vintage.

He came to a halt, looking off at the door that led down to the kitchen. It would not matter if he spent a day drowning in that bitter wine. No one would begrudge him that. He could begin with just a little to see if his stomach might rebel and if it did not, at least it would make the waiting easier to bear. Would Margaret march on London? He had no way of knowing. His spies were on the roads, with pigeons in their little wicker cages. His birds would come home and then he would spring out for the last time, against an enemy as old as the wars themselves. The woman who had killed his father and his brother. The woman who had torn England apart for a broken, weakling king. The woman whose son claimed a title that was Edward’s to award. The Prince of Wales would be his own boy, if it was to be anyone.

He would not suffer that mother and son to live. God knew he had paid enough, Edward thought. He wanted it to end.

He had forgotten the red wine in the kitchen, he realized, congratulating himself even as he began to think of it again.

The counties of Cornwall and Somerset were far from London in a way that had nothing to do with roads or maps, though there were precious few of those. The coast was well known, but there were parts of the west where no sheriff’s men could tread without a few heavy lads bearing cudgels – and sometimes not even then. Taxes were resented by righteous men and women and spoken against in the churches with all the other sins. Villages obeyed older laws than anything London claimed for itself and may have been ancient and stern when Romans beached their ships and built fine villas. London was a different place, with fashions and customs and ways of doing that did not reach the west at all.