Trinity (44 page)

York sucked his front teeth, his tongue probing a hole that hurt him.

‘He was well enough, when I left him.’ He did not look away from the fire as Salisbury blew air in grumbling irritation.

‘The sickest man in England is still “well enough”? No one would be surprised if Henry passed in his sleep, but you are somehow certain he is well? For God’s
sake
, Richard! You are the heir to the throne! Will you wait for him to die of old age?’

‘You don’t understand,’ York snapped at him. ‘While he lives, we have some semblance of acting in his name. There are still some, more than some, who will fight with us only because we
defend
the king. You were there at Ludlow. You saw Trollope lead his Calais men to the king’s side, just as soon as he saw the lion banners! If Henry died, we would be throwing away some part of our armies. Henry alive puts us in the
right
.’

Salisbury looked at the younger man in bemusement, hearing the lie and not understanding it. He wondered if York even did himself.

‘If Henry had
somehow
died tonight, as we discussed and feared he might, you would be king. You would be crowned in London tomorrow and you would take up that same lion banner. All the lords and common men who feel such awe for King Henry would kneel to you – and fight for you! Sweet Jesus, I knew it when I saw your scowls.’

Despite his anger, Salisbury looked around the room, checking no servant had entered who might overhear them. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.

‘You were the one who insisted it could be no other hand. You said you would not allow some thief to break into his room. You said it could not be done in blood. Do you still have the bottle, or did you leave it by his side for his doctors to sniff and recognize?’

Stung by the anger of his friend, York reached sharply into a pouch under his cloak and threw the small bottle into the fire, where it rested unbroken, slowly turning black. They could both hear sizzling begin inside it and a tongue of green flame flicker around the stopper.

‘He is like a child,’ York said, ‘an innocent. I think he understood what I was going to do and he forgave me for it. It would have been a monstrous thing, to damn my soul for such a boy.’

‘You would be king
tonight
,’ Salisbury said, bitterly angry. ‘You and I would have secured our futures, our families and our houses for a century. For that, I would damn a thousand souls, my own among them, then sleep like a child after.’

‘Oh, keep your scorn,’ York retorted. ‘This is no game of thrones, but real endings and real blood. I wonder how it is that you would make me king and yet still seek to control my hand. Is it so terrible that I could not murder a child? Do I not know you at all?’

Under York’s searching gaze, Salisbury looked down, breathing out and out, until he was empty.

‘You do know me,’ he said at last. ‘And it is not so terrible. I would have felt the loss if you’d brought me news of his death, not least for love of his father.’ He held up both his hands, palms out and empty. ‘Very well, Richard. I will not ask again. Send Edward to Wales and I will ride north with you, though my old bones complain at the very thought. We’ll find another way that does not come from Henry’s death.’

Margaret looked over her shoulder, her eyes brightening as she caught sight of her son. The little boy rode so proudly, with ambling Scots all around him. The lairds had put him on a horse to keep up with them, though they walked themselves. For the first few miles, Margaret had feared for his safety. Yet the one time he’d slipped, a young man had caught him easily, swooping him back into the saddle, with the boy’s laughter ringing out.

They might have frightened her, those clan warriors that Mary had chosen to come to England. They were not large men, with some notable exceptions. They wore thick beards of red or black or dark brown, sometimes braided into lengths, with charms woven into the hair. They spoke their own strange tongue amongst themselves, though a fair scattering seemed to know French. Very few of them knew English, or at least admitted to it, though they could grin and look aside at each other at the simplest question, breaking into sudden laughter for no reason she could understand.

They were fierce enough, she could see that much. Mary of Guelders had not lied when she said she’d choose them for their strength and skill. Each man wore a léine, a long yellow tunic that left his arms bare, stretching to his knees. She’d learned early on from the smell which ones had been able to afford saffron dye and which had used horse urine. Over that warcoat, they pinned a shapeless cloth – a ‘brat’, as they called it – held by a clasp at the neck to make a cloak, or even a blanket to sleep in. Some of those were dark blue, or red, while others were woven in a strange pattern of browns and greens.

She had been surprised how many went bare-legged underneath the leine and brat. A small number wore trews like her countrymen in France, moulded to their legs with years of wear and all the grease they could rub in to seal out the cold. The rest strode out with hairy legs showing almost to the thigh as they belted the brats tight around their waist, gathering the cloth in folds to march.

The days were short and dark by the time they crossed the border. They walked for all the hours of daylight, then rested and ate, with four thousand men wrapped in the brats like cocoons on the damp ground. Food was very short, though they emptied the stores of any village or town they passed and placed a few good archers at the front to watch for rabbits or winter deer. Margaret felt thinner after a week with them, though her energy seemed to increase, against all understanding, on that poor diet of oats and a few strips of dried meat.

December was well advanced by the time they reached the city of York and the huge army assembling outside it. The Scots seemed to perk up at the sight of tents and armoured knights waiting for them, making Margaret worry. She had brought an old enemy into England, for all she had been promised their loyal service. It was too easy to imagine some rash action or shouted jibe and then the young men of Scotland would be fighting the very army they had come to aid.

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 towards 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 honour 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, colour 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 into England.

‘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.

30

Christmas 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.