Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors (27 page)

‘
Enough
of this. Inform Lord Wenlock that I will charge. He must support me. I cannot sit under this fire any longer. That is my order. Support the wing. Attack when I move.’

The messenger raced off, desperately relieved to be able to get away from air that seemed to whine like hornets and terror. Somerset turned back to the beetle ranks he saw below. They had crept forward of course, in their ill discipline. He judged them and he was not completely lost in a red haze of
anger, though he felt it tugging at him. Richard of Gloucester in all his youth and arrogance, who understood
nothing
. That
family
, who had stolen Somerset’s beloved brother and his father! Who had taken so many good men and women and torn the country to pieces – and
still
, there they were in all their arrogance and spite, pouring in fire on his position like a storm wave breaking over him. It was too much.

Edward raised his head from his study of his saddle pommel, where it branched out and held his thighs so that he could use both hands for weapons. Some knights carried a shield, but he was big enough to bear the weight of thick plates and he preferred a sword and a long-hammer. The head of it looked small for a man of his size, barely larger than his hand. Yet he could swing it with crushing power and the iron shaft would block most sword blows.

He had been considering his weapons for an age as his brother sent massed fire against Somerset’s wing and ignored the rest. Edward felt dizzied by the conflicting needs within him. He wanted to push forward up that rise and into the ranks gesturing for him to come on. They were brave enough at two hundred yards. Most men were. He wanted to see how they fared when he was there amongst them. Yet he had promised his brother and he forced himself to wait, light-headed with the blood pounding through him, standing still while his breath went out in great bursts, like a wolf bunching to leap.

When he looked up, it was in response to a roar as Somerset’s battered wing came howling down the rise at Gloucester’s men. Edward’s eyes widened. It was perfect and he blessed his brother’s clear sight.

‘Advance the centre!’ he bellowed, his voice carrying right across the field. ‘Centre companies, advance!’ They lurched
off as he called, having watched Somerset lose his calm with rapt attention.

Ahead, the strongest part of Margaret’s army came barrelling down the hill that had been their one advantage. Gloucester’s companies met them head on and Edward of York crashed into them on the other flank, pikes and spearmen driving into them. The men in ranks coming down could not defend against that assault from the side. The spears plunged in, coming back red and pulling shrieks out as men fell and were trampled.

Somerset’s red rage intensified as he looked back and saw Lord Wenlock had not moved. Was the old man asleep? Wenlock and the prince still stood in peaceful ranks while their best men and their only chance was being torn apart. Somerset could not allow the sons of York to bring all their force on to each piece of his army. That way lay disaster and death. Somerset was barely off the rise when he saw how badly his force was being mauled. He gestured for Wenlock, but the arrogant old bastard made no move at all to support him.

‘Fall back in good order!’ Somerset roared to his captains. A great groan went up from battered men who had endured the barrage and then trusted him enough to follow. They were being asked to retreat up a slope, with a delighted enemy pressing against them and swinging iron. It was a hard thing, but the alternative was to have York and Gloucester whittle them away to dust, so they halted and did their best to hold Gloucester’s baying ranks away with outstretched weapons. There were a few spears and they made the first steps well enough before Gloucester saw their intention with astonished disbelief – and ordered his entire wing into a charge.

Somerset turned his horse to ride up the hill, knowing he could hardly back the animal up a slope. As he turned, he saw a pack of spearmen come racing out of woodland on his
left, with their long weapons held down and ready to attack. He could not think of an order to answer them in that moment, except to call a warning. Spears were used in defence, or as a knight’s lance. He could only blink at the sight of men running to attack with them.

‘ ’Ware left. Beware spears to the left!’ he called, but his men were pressed from the front and the flank, where more spearmen pressed and heaved. They had but one flank free and all they could do was back away as two hundred of the enemy crashed into them, the spears punching right through the first rank so that the bloody heads came out to foul those pressing behind. It broke the last will to fight in Somerset’s men, as if they’d been caught in a boar trap with spikes driven right through them. They tried to scatter but the slaughter went on and no quarter was given.

Somerset dug in his heels and felt his horse stagger as something ripped through it. He did not know what wound the animal had taken, but he could feel its strength begin to fail. The horse struggled up the rise, blowing and snorting blood. Somerset forced it on without expression, digging in his spurs again and again. He knew Gloucester and York would be pushing up the slope behind him and he had no care for that. Instead he trotted his dying horse right up to the terrified ranks of men in the centre square, who had stood and watched while their own people were cut down.

Baron Wenlock was there on his horse in the third rank, surrounded by messengers and heralds. Edward, Prince of Wales, sat a mount at Wenlock’s side. The young man paled visibly as he caught sight of Somerset. The battered duke had blood splashed across his helmet and his horse dribbled bright red at its nostrils.

‘Why didn’t you support me, my lord?’ Somerset snarled at Wenlock. ‘I sent an order. Where were you?’

Wenlock bristled, his hair very white against his darkening flush.

‘How dare you impugn my honour? You pup! I will not …’

Somerset hit him with the mace he held in his right hand, one great blow that silenced the old man. Blood poured down Wenlock’s forehead and his mouth worked in astonishment as Somerset hit him again and then watched, panting, as the lord slipped from his horse and fell to the ground.

‘By Christ!’ Edward of Wales said, his eyes widening. He was not looking at Wenlock, but behind, to where the forces of York were charging. Somerset turned, and they were engulfed.

Edward looked down at the silver knuckles of his gauntlets. They were reddened, though he could not recall punching a man in his battle madness. He had come roaring up the hill as Somerset’s wing collapsed, choosing the moment to make his charge into the forces on the rise. He’d seen Somerset arguing and a young man in the royal livery of Lancaster, hardly able to defend himself. Edward looked again at his gauntlet. There had been so much blood in his life. He had not asked for any of it. He knew there was at least one woman who would weep that day when she heard. All Margaret of Anjou’s hopes were made ash, her son pale and still with all the rest.

He found himself weeping and grew angry even as he wiped tears. Other men looked away, having seen much stranger things. Some were sick on to the grass after a battle. Others fell into a deep sleep if they could, as if they were drunk. Still more would laugh or weep, all unnoticed as they walked the field and understood that they had survived. All the things they had forgotten in the heat and swing of
murder came back in flashes and they would stop and rub their eyes and breathe deeply before going on.

Perhaps it was age, Edward thought ruefully. He began to chuckle at the vision of a weeping king, the ridiculousness of it. He could see his brother Richard congratulating the men, exactly as he himself should have been doing. His throat was dry and he grabbed a passing boy with a skin over his shoulder, upending it. He’d expected water, but it was foaming ale, thick and bitter. He gulped and gulped, like a child at a tit, breaking the seal only when he needed to breathe.

‘By God, I am dry,’ he murmured. He saw Richard approaching him and he laughed at his brother’s stricken expression.

‘Well, my oath is fulfilled, Brother,’ Edward said irritably. ‘And I find I am dry.’

‘I know, Edward, it is not that. I heard there are some knights of Lancaster claiming sanctuary in the abbey, by the town.’

‘Any names?’ Edward said. A flush had come to his cheeks at the ale in him. He seemed less weighed down, brighter and more cheerful.

‘I don’t know,’ Richard answered. ‘The monks will not let our men enter to see.’

‘Oh, will they not?’ Edward asked. He tossed the aleskin to the waiting boy and whistled for his horse. Lord Rivers brought it up to him. Edward’s personal guard formed up, all bare-headed and savage men.

‘Come with me,’ Edward said to his brother. Richard mounted once again and followed.

The abbey at Tewkesbury was not far behind the last lines of the dead, as they had been driven away from where they first stood. Edward’s expression darkened at the sight of monks in black robes standing across the great Norman
arch and door. He brought his horse into a canter then. Rivers and his guards surged forward with him, knowing there were few more frightening sights in the world than warhorses coming in iron and anger.

Edward reined in by the door, sending his horse into a skidding turn. The watching monks flinched, but did not stand back.

‘I gave an order to seek out my enemies, wherever they might hide,’ Edward called over their heads. He knew he could be heard within the walls and he made his voice loud.

The abbot stepped out of the huge doorway in response.

‘My lord York,’ he began.

‘Address me as king,’ Edward snapped at him.

‘Your Highness, if it please you, this is consecrated ground. It is sanctuary. I cannot let your men go in.’

Edward turned to the knights with him.

‘I was driven out of my own land, my wife and children forced into hiding. When I returned, I said I would make an ending. I gave no quarter. I have taken no ransoms. I consider this the battlefield still. I would take it kindly if you would enter and
put an end to anyone left alive.
’

Two of the knights walked their mounts towards the door. The monks cried out in outrage and horror, raising their hands as if they might hold them off. Instead, the knights brought blades down in sharp, chopping blows, sending blood splashing on to the stones. The abbot tried to get back inside to lock the doors, but the horsemen forced them open and rode into the abbey beyond. A great cry of fear went up from those who had gone inside as their last hope, wounded and afraid. The knights went into the gloom, and for a time, there were other shrieks and cries of pain and outrage.

Edward glanced over to his brothers. Clarence looked ill, as if he might vomit. Richard watched him, his expression
almost curious. Edward shrugged. He had seen too much of death and killing. It did not seem such a great step to him.

They found Margaret the following day. She had heard the awful news and her guards had vanished, leaving her to run alone to a convent a mile or so away. The nuns there had certainly heard the fate of those who had stood against Edward. Though they cried out in protest, they did not resist the rough soldiers who came into their corridors to drag Margaret out.

Margaret went meekly enough, lost in her grief. The captain who put her on a horse and held her reins took pity enough to let her see the body of her son, laid out in Tewkesbury Abbey. He was beautiful in his youth and Margaret stroked his cheek and held his hand for a time then, emptied and dulled by all she had suffered.

Despite her pleas, they left Edward of Lancaster behind with hundreds of others when the army of York packed up and took the road back to London. The abbey nave was splashed with red that no one seemed to know how to wash away.

Margaret had expected at first to be brought before King Edward, to be forced to endure his acid triumph. Yet he was not his father and he did not call for her. His men treated her with some courtesy on the road, but no special interest. It seemed the house of York no longer cared what became of her.

Edward had been thorough in his vengeance. Not one Lancaster lord had been spared. However they had been bound to King Henry’s line, whether by blood or by oath or by service, Edward of York had put them in the ground. The house of Lancaster had been brought to an end at Tewkesbury and on the headsman’s block, with not even the wounded spared.

Margaret mourned as her horse swayed, taking her she knew not where. Though she did not want the soldiers to hear her grieve, she found herself keening softly even so, like a child in pain. Her son, her Edward, had been cut down before he was truly a man, all his promise, all his joy gone. She would not see him laugh again and that was monstrous, so wrong that she could not understand it. She found she had been hollowed. She had given her youth and her faith and her only child to England and she had nothing else.

Edward was drunk, though he made some effort to hide it with his brother Richard standing before him. He could remember the cold clarity of the last days at Barnet and Tewkesbury only in bleary wonder. His appetites had woken like a furnace door opening, as if he had stored them up. He ate and drank himself senseless each and every day and yet the flames flickered in him still, always there, an itch he could not scratch, a burning coal he could not quench in wine. He did not tell Richard about the nightmares that plagued him. He could not bear the thought of his brother pitying him in his weakness. No. Edward felt the sweat dribbling cold from his armpits, but he smiled as if there was nothing wrong with him at all.

‘What news, Brother?’ he said, staring intently down the length of the audience room, trying to read every change of expression and subtle shift.

‘A terrible thing, Your Highness, a tragedy,’ Richard replied. Edward closed his eyes briefly. He had spent all the night before in the company of sixty lords and their ladies, with juggling and illusions and great feats of arms. His brother had not been with him.

‘Tell me, Richard, as we are alone,’ he whispered.

‘I spoke to King Henry about his son. He gave a great spasm of the spirit and he fell into a faint from which I could not rouse him. I am sorry, Brother. King Henry is dead.’

‘I will have to display his body, as I did with Warwick and Montagu. If I do not, there will always be some fool to
mutter about Lancaster’s return. Can I … Is the body fit to be seen?’

Richard looked coldly at his brother, knowing very well what he was being asked.

‘If he wears a cowl, perhaps one of mail, yes. I will have his body dressed in long robes and guarded well so that no man can come too close.’

‘Thank you,’ Edward said. He looked for some trace of guilt in the eighteen-year-old duke and found only a calm and certain confidence. ‘Now have your brother brought in.’

With all the servants dismissed, Richard himself strode back down the room and hammered a gauntlet on to the oak doors. George of Clarence came in quietly, slipping through when the door was half open. He looked from one to the other of his brothers and his expression was wary.

‘Thank you for coming in to London, George,’ Edward said, inclining his head to his brother. George walked the length of the room almost in step with Richard. When he was close, he watched Edward in turn, seeing the flush and the sweating that meant the king was deep in his cups once again. George did not think Edward knew how often he paused and blew air in or out, his eyes dull. Yet his brother wore a simple crown and sat a throne in the audience chamber in the Palace of Westminster. Edward had broken the Nevilles and the house of Lancaster in battle. No man could criticize him. When they had drawn themselves up in vast numbers, he had gone out – and destroyed them. Not once, but twice, or even three times if Towton was added to the tally. There had not been such a famed battle king since Henry V and the tragedy was that Edward had spent his youth and strength protecting his throne in England, while France thrived in peace. As Edward sat his throne that day, the country was quiet and fearful.

‘I called you to me, George, for your advice,’ Edward said. His eyes looked red and as they watched him, he turned and reached for something, then pursed his lips in irritation, looking around for servants before giving up and settling his gaze once more on his brothers.

‘Richard here is considering a union with Warwick’s daughter Ann,’ Edward announced. He saw George’s eyes narrow in sharp suspicion and felt a smile come. He reached again for a cup of wine at his elbow and his fingers twitched for a moment before he remembered. Ah, yes. He had ordered it so. It was important for him to be sharp. There would be a great feast that very night, a celebration. Lord Rivers had some anniversary or other and Edward had agreed to host a banquet in Windsor. He could drink himself to oblivion then, in wine and spirits that would grant him sleep without dreams.

‘She was married to Edward of Lancaster,’ George said suddenly. ‘Are you sure she is untouched, Richard? Edward of Lancaster was a very young man, full of vigour.’

‘I will wait long enough to be sure her womb is empty, of course,’ Richard said with a shrug. ‘That is not your concern.’ He looked up at Edward, and George of Clarence struggled with a growing sense of disaster. Richard was clearly prompting their brother and he could guess at the thrust of it. Before he could speak, Edward held up a finger and dashed his hopes.

‘Richard was a vital part of my victories at Barnet and Tewkesbury. In addition, he has done great service to the crown. It is my desire to find some suitable reward. When I heard the name of the one he will marry, well, I knew you would join me in finding a …’ Edward’s voice died away as he flicked his fingers for the word.

‘Reward, Your Highness,’ Richard said, smiling brightly at George.

‘Yes, reward. The Warwick estates – a dozen castles, hundreds of manors and towns and villages and fortresses. Some of the best land in England and Wales.’

‘Which I have inherited
jure uxoris
, by right of my wife,’ George said. He looked stubborn and Edward frowned at him, leaning over so that his big scarred hands rested on his knees.

‘Don’t fight me on this, George,’ Edward muttered. His brother still looked stubborn and Edward seemed to grow in size as his flush deepened. In him, anger was a physical change and both of his brothers could sense the threat that had stolen into that room.

‘Warwick’s titles were all attainted, George. Have you forgotten? I could pass them all to your brother as Crown estates – and what would you do? Go running to my Parliament? To my lords? Would you say your brother was acting within the laws of England and you did not like it?’

‘There are a thousand dispute cases in the courts, Edward. I have some forty of them being argued myself! All I ask is that you do not take from me what will be mine when the courts have run their course.’

‘No, George. I will rule on this now. If you challenge that ruling in the courts, you will stand against my direct command as your king. Do not take the risk, George. Blood will protect you – to a point. You stand at that point now.’

Edward had risen from his chair and loomed over both of them. George stood quivering in rage and then spat a curse, turning on his heel and storming out at enough speed to make his cloak swirl as he went. In temper, he slammed the door at the end of the room.

In the astonished silence that followed, Richard turned slowly to his brother. His eyebrows were raised and Edward sat down once again, waving a hand at the unasked question.

‘Yes, take what estates you would, Richard. Clarence is a fool. Perhaps that is the end of it and he will not challenge me again. If it is not …’ He did not need to finish.

‘I hope so,’ Richard said. ‘He’s a weak man, but he’s still our brother.’

‘And an uncle once more, or he will be, if he has the sense to stay out of my sight for a time.’

‘Elizabeth is pregnant? Again?’ Richard asked. He chuckled. ‘I suppose you were a long time apart.’

Edward shook his head in irritation.

‘I do not like her, Brother. But she has a way of enticing me … She is already vomiting in the mornings. I think I must have the most potent seed. I have only to look in her direction and she is full again.’

‘I will hope for a brother for your son,’ Richard said. ‘I would not like to have had only sisters.’ He saw Edward was raising his hand to wave this off or make some jesting comment and he spoke over it.

‘I mean it. I will hope for another boy, so that they can have … this. I have friends, Edward. I value what you and I have more than friendship. It matters to me that we have trust between us. Since our father went, especially. You know I admire you, above all others. Though God knows you are a hard man to please.’

‘Thank you,’ Edward said. ‘I miss him still. I walk in his old rooms and his authority is not there. I can still hardly believe he is gone.’ He smiled and Richard saw his eyes swam with brightness. Edward cleared his throat, sniffing. The loud noises seemed to bring him out of his reverie. ‘But if George stands against me over your estates, I will not warn
him again. Family or not, Richard, I am the king of England. I have seen more blood than any man ever should. I have earned this peace.’

Jasper Tudor dropped on to the stuffed cushion of his chair, as if his legs had given way beneath him. He held a single sheet of vellum in his hands, much sanded and scratched over, then refilled with black letters that stole away the last of his hopes. He wanted to throw it into the kitchen fire and he twitched to do so, before staying his hand. Henry would want to read it. God knew, it was his concern.

As if in answer, the boy came in at that moment, holding up a length of twine with the tiny bodies of sparrows threaded on to it. Jasper had taught him how to snare the birds and also how to make a pie of them. He could not help but smile at Henry’s pleased expression, though Jasper’s hand made the paper tremble even as he did.

‘Sit down, Henry,’ he said softly, indicating the second chair. The cottage was small and there was room only for the two of them. Even in the short time since they’d arrived, it had grown around them in comfort. For the first time, Jasper felt smothered by the place. He took Henry’s arm and jerked his head to the yard outside.

‘The woodsmoke is making my eyes red, Henry. Walk with me. I have news from home.’

He watched as his nephew laid the thread of sparrows down on the table, leaving a spattering of bright-red droplets on the polished wood. Jasper felt his gaze drawn to it and held. He shook himself free and led the way out to the evening warmth.

For a time, neither of them spoke. Jasper strode away from the little house, down the lane by the dovecote and out on to the main field that stretched away down into a valley. A
naked oak stood at the crest of the hill, its bark stripped by death, the wood beneath made the colour of old cream by sun and passing time. Jasper walked to its foot and patted the smooth trunk. He held up the piece of vellum and his nephew glanced warily at it.

‘I wish it were not so, Harry, but we cannot go home. Edward of York has won his battles and King Henry is gone to salvation, God have mercy on his soul. They say it was from heartbreak and despair, but I think he came to the end of the rope they allowed him.’

‘He was kind to me,’ Henry said. ‘I liked him. Is my mother safe?’ Jasper nodded.

‘She says she is. I will let you read it, I promise. The king’s hunters care not for the women of the line, only the men. Give thanks for that, in your prayers tonight.’

Henry nodded, his eyes dark.

‘I will. Is she to come to us here, then? I would … like that.’

Jasper held up the paper.

‘She spoke not of it. If she is threatened, you have my word I will bring her away, Harry. As I did with you.’

Some slight tension went out of his nephew. Jasper saw with fresh eyes how much faith the young man had in him. It broke his heart. The fields were green around the bare oak, the summer’s beauty written on the land. Yet Jasper felt himself cold and dark in the midst of new life, weary with pity and grief. There would be no return in glory to Pembroke for him then, nor would his nephew see Richmond and the court. They had only a lonely exile ahead, with a few coins from the French king each month to pay for food and red wine.

‘We can make a fair life here,’ Jasper said, forcing cheer into his voice. ‘There is a little money from Paris – and the
dovecote earns us more. I’ll find work for us both, I am sure. You have been trained as a knight, Harry. That has value and you will not go hungry. We can keep those skills sharp and perhaps when you are a little older, I’ll find you a bride from the local barons. Who knows, we might find one with a fortune.’

Henry didn’t blink as he looked him over and Jasper felt himself growing uncomfortable.

‘Will I not go home again, Uncle? Never?’ Henry asked.

‘Harry, listen. Your mother is the last daughter of the line of John of Gaunt – the house of Lancaster. You are her only child and she is almost thirty. The last man of Lancaster stands before me now. You, Harry. All the rest have been cut down. Do you understand? If you go home, if you appear in London and try to live a quiet life, I would not give a bent copper for your chances. Perhaps King Edward was driven to his vengeance, but he drank deep when he had the chance, son. He has so many dead by his hands now, he would not hold back from one more, not to finish the task. I’m sorry, I really am. But you must think of your life here now. You must find a way to leave all of that behind.’

Henry had watched Jasper reach out to the oak as he spoke, stroking the rippled smoothness. As silence returned, Henry put his own hand on to the wood and let his fingers drift across it. He left no mark and he tilted his head in interest, like a bird.

‘I will wait, Uncle,’ he said suddenly. ‘I waited in Pembroke for a long time – and you came. If I wait again, perhaps we’ll see a way home. You must not lose hope.’

Jasper felt his eyes prickle and he laughed at his own emotion.

‘I won’t, Harry. I will dream of home, of Wales and Pembroke.’ On impulse, he turned in the long grass, eyeing the
sun until he thought he faced to the north-west. ‘It is … over there, Harry, at this very moment. In the rain, probably, but still home.’

Margaret watched the lights of Paris growing brighter along the river. She had been four days at sea and she was calm and broken-hearted, as if she had a piece of jagged flint in her chest. Losing her son was a grief she could not encompass, could not even describe. Perhaps it had been a sort of mercy for Edward to allow her to return to France. She’d been told some sort of offer had been made, though for the longest time she had been so deep in grief that she had understood very little and her own life had meant nothing. She had not washed for weeks, so that her skin had gone grey and her hair thick with dirt. She’d made some small effort with a bucket and cloth as the boat made its way from the open sea to the more peaceful river beyond. The sail creaked in the breeze and the men of the crew murmured to each other, but still she was cold as ashes. She looked up from her shawls and her bags as the boat bumped against the docks. It had grown dark and there were soldiers standing there with torches fluttering overhead. She saw King Louis had come down to meet her and she found that there were still tears inside, though she had thought they had all gone. Margaret stood with a heavy bag in each hand as the little gangway was placed. She came down it and set her things on the quayside as Louis came up and took her hands in his, his eyes full of sorrow.