Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors (9 page)

Horns blew somewhere behind, a mournful note like a stag calling. A thrill of fear made Richard turn, but in the morning mists there could be no sign of banners. Still, there was a cold horror in being hunted, even for those who had known battle.

As he stared behind him, Richard frowned. In such a place, in cold and rain and caught between violent enemies, he would not have blamed his brother’s followers if they had slipped away in the night. Yet they remained, stubborn as personal oaths and still certain that Edward would come through. Richard thought it was madness as he blinked through blurring rain. He could do much with such loyalty, were it ever his to command.

Earl Rivers rode close by Edward’s shoulder, with his usual eye for Woodville advancement, Richard did not doubt. There was one who would be at Edward’s side until the last breath, just in case a title or a fortune needed a new owner.

The thought was depressing. Though neither of the two York men had announced it as a plan, they were running east then towards the port of Bishop’s Lynn, the final decision coming closer with every milestone. With just eight hundred men, the land was lost. Yet if Edward took sail, it would be an ending in humiliation, on a bitter sea. There would be no more titles or great hunts after that. No York, no Gloucester. Their enemies would have triumphed and the house of Lancaster would rule once more, as if their cousins had never cast them down. Richard shook his head at the thought of the poor broken mute who would wear the crown. They should have killed King Henry, for all his foolish innocence. Warwick could not have used a corpse for his throne.

Richard’s horse stumbled. The animal was exhausted and could fall. Had he been asleep again? Edward was a dozen paces ahead of him and Richard reached up to slap himself awake in stinging blows. He had ridden with almost no rest for three days … no, four. This was the fourth day. Some had fallen behind, out of sight, but Richard was almost eighteen years old and he would not fail his brother, the king. He would not.

They had begun to pass between a row of ancient thorn hedges, overgrown so that they loomed and stole what little light there was. To the west, horns sounded again, closer; to the east, for the first time, Richard could smell the sea. He found tears springing from him at the thought of leaving. He had to remove a gauntlet to rub his eyes clear, keeping his head low so that no one else could see. As he glanced up though, he saw that he was not the only one. They pushed their horses on for the last mile down to the docks. Edward seemed listless and dull-eyed, too downcast to do anything but stare miserably at the morning sun.

The fishing crews had already gone out and the port of Lynn was quiet. No one seemed to know what to do in their tiredness, their minds made lead. Hundreds of horsemen milled around, talking in low voices and always looking up for those who pursued. Richard glanced to his brother, knowing Edward should have had some word for them. They had not deserted the king, to the end. Yet Edward sat bowed over his saddle, lost and sullen and far from that place.

With a groan at his tortured muscles and stiff joints, Richard dismounted. The pain was just about unbearable and he wanted to curl up in a doorway and sleep. Instead, he peeled off his cloak and left the thing to drip down the flanks of his overheated horse. Richard staggered as he approached a
merchant vessel and hailed the master. The man was there to oversee the loading of cargo. He had observed the arrival of the weary band of soldiers and riders with barely hidden fear.

‘In the name of King Edward, we demand safe passage,’ Richard said. It could not be for all. Eight hundred would need a fleet even if they had a day or two for loading. He wanted Edward to dismiss the men, to say a few fine words and then get on board. His body hurt terribly and he was so tired even death had become enticing, as a chance to just
rest
.

Like a pale ghost, Richard stood blinking at the captain. In reply, the man took a step back, shaking his head before he could even speak and holding up empty hands.

‘I am just a trader, my lord. I want no new enemies. I have broken no laws.
Please
, leave me to my business.’

‘I will not ask again,’ Richard said wearily. He dared not look behind, though his back crawled at the thought of Warwick’s men spilling on to the quays. ‘Instead I will cut your heart out and leave you dead on this dock. My name is Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. My duty is to preserve the king’s safety. Do not doubt my intention.’

He knew Edward had come to stand beside him by the way the merchant looked up, then nervously at the white rose of York embroidered on both their tunics. Edward too had left his cloak behind. As well as the symbol of York, his tunic was set on the breast with seed pearls in the design of a sun in flames. The merchant stared at it with wide eyes.

‘May I send the horses on board?’ Edward asked. The man could only nod mutely. Edward gestured to Lord Rivers and the man began issuing sharp commands, driving the animals to the ramp. The horses clattered on to the deck and the merchant winced at the sound. Richard clapped him on the shoulder.

‘There are traitors close behind us, captain. If you have
not cast off and retreated out of bowshot by the time they reach this dock, I do not doubt they will set your ship ablaze with arrows dipped in oil. It is what I would do.’

Richard turned then to his brother. Edward still loomed, but some vital spark had been taken from him. He was red-eyed as he met Richard’s gaze.

‘Dismiss your men, Edward. We cannot take more than a few.’

Without another word, Richard climbed the ramp to the deck. Behind him, he heard Edward take a breath. When he addressed them, it was without flourish or booming call. He spoke as a man rather than a king.

‘You have brought me safe to this place,’ he said. ‘You have my thanks. God willing, I will seek you out once again and I will reward you for your loyalty. Until then, go with God, my brothers.’

It was all that had held them on the docks and they bowed and remounted, trotting away in every direction. The poor Earl of Worcester would surely have been taken by then, miles behind the rest.

Edward watched the loyal men depart, until there were just a few of his lords remaining with their servants and guards. A dozen men, no more. They walked their mounts on to the ship, leaving Edward to stare at the country he was losing.

Ropes were untied that bound them to the shore. The ramps were pulled in and the sail run up on to the mast. A yard of water appeared between the wooden rail and the stone dock, then two and they were easing away.

‘Where is your home port, our destination?’ Richard called. The captain was practically weeping at the sight of the bales he’d left behind on the quay. The man stared at him, not daring to give voice to his anger at his turn of fortune.
Richard of Gloucester felt like striding across the deck and strangling him where he stood. A man could suffer greater losses than a mere ship’s cargo. Something of that strong emotion in his gaze made the captain look down.

‘Picardy, my lord. France.’

‘No longer,’ Richard shouted over the increasing breeze. ‘Set your rudder and sail for Flanders, northern coast. We have friends there still. And look cheerful! You have played a fine part today. Your little ship holds the king of England.’

The captain bowed in response, not that he had any choice at all. If any of his crew had dared to resist, Edward’s remaining knights and lords were still fighting men, for all their hunger and weariness.

‘Flanders, my lord, as you say.’

The land retreated and, for the first time in days, Richard relaxed, settling into the motion of the merchant cog. Flanders in the north, with Luxembourg to the south. Below those, the duchies of Bar and Lorraine – and then Burgundy itself. He pictured them all in his mind’s eye, all disputed territory. Edward had only one ally over the Channel: Duke Charles of Burgundy, avowed enemy of the French king, who ruled from Flanders to his heartland. The duchy had made huge gains while the old French king was weak. Richard rather envied the man his position.

Overhead, the sun was a smudge of light through the clouds, a weak thing that could not warm either brother as they stared at the green English coast, blurring in the distance.

‘Earl Warwick came back, Brother,’ Richard called to him. ‘Are you a lesser man?’

To his pleasure, he saw Edward consider it, his eyebrows rising in surmise. Richard chuckled aloud. For all the failures and disaster they had suffered, there was still something
joyous about the sense of a live ship under them, of the salt spray and the morning.

It was a joy that faded quickly when Richard began to belch and feel a sort of clammy sickness steal over him, made worse with each rise and plunge of the ship. After only a short time, his stomach heaved up into his throat and he rushed for the rail, guided backward and downwind by exasperated sailors. He spent the following day and night lashed to the stern, lolling over grey, rolling waves, helpless as a child and sicker than he had ever known was possible.

Margaret of Anjou could sense the rise in her status in a thousand ways. It showed in the deference of King Louis’s courtiers, men and women who spent their lives with a fine appreciation for the power and connections of those around them. For too long, she had been one of a hundred little
moules
of the royal family. She had heard the word whispered by snide clerks and the fat daughters of French lords. Mussels clung to the belly of ships in clusters, or grew on rocks and gaped for their food like young birds in a nest. She did not know if the comparison stung all the more because of the truth of it.

Her father was still alive, to her daily irritation. Others of his generation had passed sweetly away in their sleep, surrounded by loved ones. René of Anjou remained, made thinner by age, but still a great white toad into his sixties. Though he lived in the castle at Saumur, he had not invited his daughter to join him there. In her private moments, Margaret could admit that if he had, there was a chance she would have smothered him, so perhaps it was not a poor decision. René had offered her a broken old house on the Saumur estate, a cottage fit for a charcoal burner, without even a roof. Perhaps he had intended it as a mark of his disfavour; he had sent her out into the world to marry an English king – and she had come home with a son and little else beyond the clothes on her back.

The thought made anger blaze in her even then, after years. How strange to have the French king show her more
mercy and kindness than her own father! They called King Louis the Universal Spider, for all his clever plans and his schemes. Yet he had visited a stipend on Margaret and allowed her to take rooms at the Louvre Palace in his capital, complete with the servants whose manners had changed so abruptly over the last month. She and her son had been little
moules
on his ship of state, it was true. Yet Warwick had kept his word and her husband had been freed from the Tower.

‘And Henry wears the crown once more,’ she whispered to herself. It was not just the answer to her prayers, it was the result of years of work. She inclined her head, staring out of a window lined in gold leaf, each delicate flake pasted on by a master who did no other work. She could see her own reflection as she focused more closely. Time had stolen the youthful bloom from her skin, clawing at her. She smoothed her hair with a palm as she examined herself, but each day required a little more artistry with paint and powder – and even then her teeth had either been drawn or grown brown. She snorted to herself, irritated at the signs of a weakness she did not feel. She was in no pain, which was a blessing. Forty was the beginning of old age, especially for one who had seen and lost so much in the quarter century she had given to England. Yet she had been given another throw in return.

Even after so long, she did not know for certain that she could trust Warwick.

‘Show me,’ she had said, when he made his promises, imperious and unbending. His father had been killed by her men, that was what troubled her and made her fear. Salisbury had fallen together with York – and though she’d felt only triumph at that moment, it had been her greatest failure. In bringing down the fathers, she had unleashed the sons.

Could Warwick ever forgive? He had no love for her, she
understood that much. The bare truth seemed to be that he had no other choice, now that he had fallen out with Edward and his precious, traitorous house of York. He said he wished to undo the pain and grief he had caused. As if that was ever possible.

Margaret sniffed, the first sign of the winter colds that plagued her each year for months. A life was lived like paths forking in the deep forest. Each choice was made and a man or woman had to go on, with no opportunity to return and find a way back to some happier time. All they could do was stumble deeper and deeper in, blind and weeping.

Yet Warwick had promised to free Henry of Lancaster, the true king of England – and he had. He had promised to put a crown on Henry’s bowed head and her spies swore he had done so. That was why the courtiers who had sneered at her faded finery now looked abashed. Her husband was once again the king of England; her enemies were hunted down. She raised her head a fraction further, feeling the strain in her neck. She had been bowed down, for too long. She could look at herself in a glass, the odd doll of her reflection staring steadily back – and feel no shame.

All Warwick had asked was that his remaining daughter be married to her son. Margaret had laughed when he’d first broached the idea. His oldest daughter was already married to George of Clarence. Seeing a second girl wed to Lancaster would give Warwick a son-in-law in both camps. Some bloodline boy of his could even be king of England when they were all gone. His ambition was greater than she had ever known and Margaret could only sigh at the things she could have told her younger self. The paths all lay behind, the decisions made, for good or ill.

Her son entered the room at the far end, his spurred boots muffled on the carpets. Servants bowed as he appeared and
again, Margaret saw that they were suitably respectful. Her beautiful young Edward was once more Prince of Wales.

‘Have you heard the news, Mother?’ he called in fluent French as soon as he laid eyes on her. Margaret had heard it all hours before her son, of course, though she still shook her head to allow him the joy of telling it.

‘My father has been crowned once again in Westminster. It is all over Paris,
Maman
! They say Edward of York has run off somewhere in the north, but he has no more than a few hundred with him. He will be hunted with dogs, they say – and torn apart.’

‘It is
magnificent
,’ Margaret breathed. She felt tears come and she knew her eyes were shining with them. To her pleasure, Edward came and took both her hands in his. He was well made, with a look more of his grandfather than his father, so she had told him a thousand times. That man had taken the war to the French heartland, defeating them at Agincourt with strength and courage and rage and arrows. This boy would have pleased the battle king, Margaret was certain. Great lines could skip a generation.

Her Edward was taller than his father, though not as tall as the giant of York who bore the same name, more was the pity. From the time her son had learned to talk, he had listened to a thousand tales of loss from her, when there was no one else to see her weep. He loved his mother, and in his youth he simply wanted to make it right once more, to uproot the bad vine on the throne. England had failed her, after all. Prince Edward had worked harder than any man Margaret had ever known to build skill and strength as a knight, though of course it had fallen to the French king to actually make him one.

He stood like a young bull across the shoulders, deep-chested and clear-eyed, his health and seventeen years of
perfect youth written on his every movement. She felt tears spill on her cheek and wiped roughly at them. A mother’s pride could be overwhelming, even for one who had seen too much of loss.

‘When do we leave, Mother?’ he said in English. ‘I have my dogs and my horses ready. Uncle Louis has said he will send his best men with me if I wish, just so he can say he played his part.’

Margaret smiled. ‘Uncle Louis’ and his webs had brought about a result he wanted. The French king had persuaded Margaret and Warwick to meet in the first place, taking enormous pains to put them in the same room. Edward of York had no time for the French royals, preferring Burgundy and all their vulgar grasping. No doubt King Louis would be raising a toast to Henry of Lancaster as she spoke.

‘There is one task yet to put behind us, my son, before we go rushing back to England. Your marriage to Warwick’s daughter. That much I promised him, as earnest of my goodwill and my trust. He has fulfilled his part of our bargain, at least for today. Until King Edward’s head is spiked like his father’s on the walls of York, I will not sleep soundly in my bed, but for today, it is … enough.’

To her pleasure, her son waved a hand as if at a mere formality. He had met the daughter of Warwick a few times once the betrothal was announced, more for the look of it than any great desire to know one another. Prince Edward’s heart and hawkish gaze were on England and always had been. Margaret knew he would give anything to set foot there once again. It was her task to rein him back from rashness, to be certain that England would not take her beloved son from her. That cold bitch of a country had taken everything else and all the years of her youth, after all.

‘As soon as it can be done, Mother, it does not matter to
me. I want to be at sea! I want to watch those white cliffs grow once again after so many summers riding French coasts and seeing them out there – forbidden to me. I will be king, Mother! As you promised.’

‘Of course,’ Margaret replied. She had told him so a thousand times, but never been more certain than at that moment.

Warwick stared out over a winter sea. Armed men waited, packing the roads and fields all around. Beyond their grim ranks, the town of Bishop’s Lynn appeared utterly deserted, every house barred and shuttered just as they would be for a great storm.

Warwick looked to the two men with him, one bound by blood, the other by marriage. It was hard not to think of sixteen years before, when he had been the least experienced man, when his father, Earl Salisbury, and the Duke of York had contemplated raising banners against a king of England. He had come a long way since that day, though in the cold and the soft rain, it was not hard to imagine himself back on a muddy field by the town of St Albans, with it all to play out.

George, Duke of Clarence, seemed less certain of himself than was usual. Warwick watched him carefully, seeing that the young man had lost some of his confidence. Perhaps he felt Edward being driven out of England as a blow to his status, Warwick did not know. His son-in-law seemed lost in thought as they looked out over the waves. Warwick could hear seals somewhere out there, barking and yelping. He could not pursue Edward, not without a fleet already in place, ready to take up the chase over the trackless ocean.

Warwick dismissed his own irritation even as it surfaced. He could not be right every time and he refused to waste any more of his life on pointless blame and wishing-it-had-been. No. He accepted his errors and put them aside. He would go on.

His brother John, Lord Montagu, rather spoiled the fine feeling of the moment by raising his head and answering a question no one had asked.

‘We should have had a few fast ships out on the brine, waiting on him. Yes. We could have strung Edward up on a yard then and not have to worry now about him coming back.’

‘Thank you, John,’ Warwick said sourly. ‘That had not occurred to me.’

‘I’m just saying you don’t leave a man like Edward of York alive, is all. You know that even better than me. He doesn’t stay down, unless you
put
him down. That’s what I came to you for, Brother. That’s the hunt I wanted. A clean sweep, with all the scraps washed down the drain. Not this. Now I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.’

Warwick scowled at his younger brother. John Neville was hard-bitten and dark, the skin of his face drawn tight across the bones beneath. He was one of the most ruthless men Warwick had ever known. John had even been called Edward’s hound for a while, until the king took the title of Earl of Northumberland away from him. It had been one of Edward’s key mistakes, and all for the whispers and manipulations of his little wife. Warwick made a grunting, growling sound at the thought, looking out to sea once more and recalling his resolution not to let the past bind him.

‘Nothing we can do about that now, John. You’ll get Northumberland back, just as we agreed. And I will have all the lands and titles taken from me – and denied to my daughters after me. Titles you will inherit, George, eh? When I am gone.’

‘And I will be made Duke of York,’ George said suddenly, his voice strained.

‘Of course,’ Warwick replied immediately. ‘When Edward is attainted, the title will fall to you as of right.’

‘And heir. Heir to the throne,’ George went on. He looked mulish and ready for an argument, but Warwick only shrugged.

‘As I have said, though after Henry’s son.’

‘Yes … of course,’ George replied. He did not seem quite as pleased at that as he had been before. What had been a fantasy was coming true before his eyes. His brother King Edward had been driven from England. Henry of Lancaster was upon the throne once more and George recalled Henry’s son had been a fine young man. Still, to be second in line for the throne of England was no small thing. Warwick watched as George shrugged to himself and decided to wear it and wait. It was all he could ask.

‘Good lad,’ Warwick said, playing the expansive father-in-law to perfection as he gripped the young man’s shoulder. ‘Go now and see that the captains know to make camp. It’s too far to the London road to return to it today. There is something right and proper about keeping a watch, at least for one night. I can do no more now.’

George of Clarence dipped his head, pleased to be given the responsibility. He rode away and Warwick waited until he was out of earshot before turning to his brother, expecting the exact bitterness of expression he saw there.

‘We could not have gone faster, John, I swear it,’ Warwick said. ‘You told me Edward ran early. It saved his life.’

‘He’ll come back,’ Montagu said. He spat on to the cobbles as if the words themselves were bitter.

‘Perhaps,’ Warwick replied. ‘And if he does, we’ll be followers of the true king, with Henry and his wife and his son, the Prince of Wales, all safe. Maybe I’ll pay for an army to guard them, when Parliament give me back my estates. By God, I will! Why should we raise surly farmers each time we need them to stand? We should have proper soldiers, like the
old legions. Men who don’t go home to their farms to take in the damned harvest.’

‘They say he grew fat,’ Montagu said, still grumbling. ‘But Edward of York is still the most dangerous man I ever met. He’ll come back – unless you move against him. Use the men you have. Derry Brewer for one. That vicious old whoreson has more cunning in him than a dozen of your Parliament fellows. Give Brewer a purse of gold and tell him to make sure Edward of York doesn’t bother us again. He’ll know what to do.’