Loyalty (15 page)

   The storm continued through the night, and only started to blow itself out in the early hours of the morning. By then the crew were reduced to pallid, hollow-eyed ghosts, shattered by their heroic efforts to keep the
Anthony
afloat.

   Edward moved on shaking legs through the sudden flat calm, picking his way over broken spars and bits of tangled rigging. He passed a sailor leaning against a mast, having a broken arm bound up by a comrade, and smiled weakly at him. The man gave him a hostile glare in return. He was French, of course, and had no liking for Englishmen; especially those who puked on deck and made him risk his life in violent storms.

   Lord Hastings had survived the storm, but only just, judging by his appearance. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his face was haggard, with an alarming greenish pallor.

   Edward was touched by the way this exhausted and clearly frightened man held himself upright, his back straight as a lance, at the approach of his king. Hastings, like Gloucester, was one of the few men whom Edward was certain would never abandon or knowingly fail him.   

   “Majesty,” Hastings said wearily, “you are safe. Thank God.”

   Edward didn’t reply. He was looking out to sea, and what he saw made his heart plunge.

   There was no sign of the rest of the fleet. The sea was swept clean of ships, as though God had scooped them up and borne them away.    

   It was at this moment that Edward’s spirit, weighed down by care and misfortune, almost broke. He could fight men, but how could he battle against the elements, or the will of the divine power that moved them?

   “There is Ravenspur,” said Hastings, pointing at Spurn Head, the narrow spit of sand projecting out from the coast, “God has seen us safe here, at least.”

   Edward gave a wan smile. “Yes, but without my fleet and most of my troops. Still, the way seems clear for us to land. We shall put ashore.”

   Hastings looked at him in alarm. “Majesty, that is unwise. We have less than forty soldiers aboard. That will not be enough to protect you against Northumberland if he decides to arrest you.”

   “Northumberland won’t even know we’re here,” Edward replied blithely, “and by the time he does, our fleet will have regrouped. Let us find a place to shelter on land, and send riders to find where the rest of our company have landed. Only a fool would have stayed out on the open sea in that storm.”

   Hastings continued to try and persuade him against landing, arguing that it was madness to set foot inside potentially hostile territory with such a meagre following, but Edward refused to listen. Even if the fates were against him, this was his land, paid for with his blood and sweat. Nothing would prevent him from treading on English soil again.

   Tension clawed at him as he lowered his considerable bulk down the ladder into a boat, helped by a couple of sailors. The sea was still choppy, whipped up by a strong wind, and the boat rocked violently as he dropped into it.

   He winked at Hastings as he steadied himself. The other man looked away, and his eyes remained fixed on the dreary beach as the oarsmen hurriedly rowed the boat to shore.

   The soldiers boarded the other boats in disciplined silence, but the same could not be said for the horses, sick and terrified after their ordeal below deck in the storm. They kicked and plunged and bit at the sailors trying to fit ropes around their bellies to winch them over the side into the transports. Edward winced as he saw one man’s face raked by a flailing hoof.

   “I hope to Christ these coasts aren’t watched,” said Hastings, “the din we’re making will draw any scout from miles around.”

   Edward agreed, but there was nothing to be done. His boat was the first to reach the shallows, and he made sure he was the first man to leap into the waist-deep waters.

   “Got to set an example,” he said to Hastings through chattering teeth. He waded to shore, gasping at the cold as it knifed through his soaked clothing.

   Thanks to the rough handling of the horses, the landing was a chaotic affair, and took far longer than Edward would have liked.

   All the while he stood and shivered on the beach, wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak that Hastings gave him, and keeping a sharp eye out for anyone observing them.

    He saw no-one. The landscape was bare and devoid of cover save for a few scrubby trees. When the first of the horses was ashore, Hastings sent a hobelar to scout out the land. He returned to report that he had found a village, a tiny place, a couple of miles away on the north bank of the estuary.

   By now all the men and animals were ashore and the boats were rowing back to the ship. Edward’s destrier, a noble but evil-tempered beast, had required much soothing by her master before she settled down.

   “We’ll ride to the village,” he said, helping his squire to saddle her, “and take shelter there for the night. From there we can send out riders to find the rest of our men. Their ships must be scattered up and down this coast.”

   “Or sunk,” Hastings said gloomily. Edward gave him a hard look.

   “None of that,” he said quietly, “it’s not good for morale. I expect better from you.”

   Hastings looked ashamed as he clambered aboard his own horse. Edward regretted having to speak to the man so, but his fortunes were on a knife-edge. He knew the temperament of mercenaries, and that they were only prepared to risk their skins so far. One more stroke of bad luck and they would surely desert, leaving Edward and Hastings to re-conquer England alone.

   The absurd thought made him grin, and he felt surprisingly light-hearted as he and his handful of soldiers followed the scout across the bleak sands of the estuary. The storm had left a clean, fresh scent to the air, and the stiff breeze blowing in from the North Sea ruffled his hair and carried the tang of salt to his nostrils.

   It was exhilarating, and Edward could have laughed aloud as he heeled his destrier into a full-blooded gallop. Grateful for the exercise after being cooped up in
Anthony’s
stinking hold, she responded.

   The peasants that dwelled in the little village that lay to the north were treated to the sight of a gigantic, over-excited figure on a war-horse thundering towards them at the head of a troop of armed men. The menfolk bravely came out to defend their poor cottages, while the women and children hurried inside.

   They made for a pathetic sight, a dozen or so gawping rustics armed with pitchforks and shovels. Edward was touched by their courage.

   He reined in his lathered horse at a good distance from the village, and raised his right arm in greeting.

   “Food and shelter for the night!” he bellowed, his voice carried by the wind, “we can pay, and my men shall leave you and yours alone.”

   The villagers had no choice in the matter – if necessary, Edward was prepared to take what he wanted if they wouldn’t give it – but it was important to allow them the delusion. Key to his charm was a talent for convincing others that he needed them.

   The reeve, a knock-kneed old man with a halo of grubby white hair that floated around his head like sea-mist, stepped forward.

   “Who are you?” he asked in a quavering voice.

   “Tell them you are one of the Earl of Warwick’s knights,” Hastings urged Edward, “and that we were shipwrecked on our way north to reinforce Northumberland.”

   “To hell with that,” Edward said dismissively, and raised his voice to a great shout, “I am Edward Plantagenet, rightful King of England!”

   The reeve’s mouth dropped open. He shifted from one bare foot to the other, plainly struggling to comprehend what he had just heard.

   Edward planted one fist on his hip and gazed calmly at the villagers, waiting for their reaction. Even in damp clothing and a plain blue cloak, he still looked every inch a king, and knew it.

   Whatever doubts that might have swirled inside the reeve’s head were quickly smothered by common sense. He carefully got down on his knees in the wet sand and bowed his ancient head. After some hesitation and exchange of baffled glances, the men behind him did the same.

   “God save the King,” they chorused.

   Edward turned to Hastings. “You see?” he said, punching the other affectionately on the shoulder, “one whole village has submitted to us. My re-conquest has begun.”

   The other man’s sombre, worried face looked back at him, and then his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. 

   “God be thanked!” cried Edward, “a miracle!”

   The first of many I shall need
, he added silently,
before this war is done.

Chapter 15

London, 20
th
March

James was roused from his bed at an unreasonably early hour. He had stayed up late in his lodgings at The Ship, a tavern inside Lambeth where he usually stayed when visiting London, poring over letters and reports, and resented being rudely awoken by someone shouting like a madman and hammering on the door.

   He crawled out of bed, withdrew the dagger from under his pillow and staggered towards the door.

   “Be quiet, damn you!” he yelled, peering through a crack in the timbers, “I’m awake. Who are you, and what the hell do you want?”

   The noise ceased. James glimpsed a boy’s face, pimply and with a meagre scrub of beard, and sighed when he saw the livery he wore.

   “I come from the Earl of Warwick,” the page said in a hoarse whisper, “my lord wishes to see you at the palace. At once.”

   “Yes, yes,” James replied irritably, “give me a moment.”

   He fumbled with his clothing, cursing the day he chose to set aside the quiet life of a country priest and get involved in politics.

   There was a half-empty cup of wine on the stool beside his bed. James drained it, wincing at the lack of taste – he had to stick to small beer and wine watered almost to extinction – knuckled his eyes, and stretched until the bones in his shoulders clicked.

   Now he was ready. Sliding the dagger into the sheath at his belt, he lifted the bar on the door and presented a smiling countenance.

   “Good morning,” he said, ruffling the page’s hair.

   They hurried through Westminster’s murky, rain-lashed streets, muffled up in scarves and warm hooded cloaks and dodging the early morning wagons as they rumbled past. A filthy winter was proving loath to surrender its grip on the country, and for months the capital had been battered by storms.

   James grinned inside the privacy of his hood as they struggled across Westminster Bridge in the teeth of a high wind. The abysmal weather appealed to him. It reminded him of dark nights at home in Staffordshire, sitting in front of a blazing fire with his kin while the elements raged outside, and was far preferable to the hot, sticky climate of the South of France. Excess heat made him uncomfortable, and physical discomfort was best eased by strong drink.

   He was sweating by the time they reached the outer ward of the palace, and not with exertion. His hands had started to tremble, so he kept them hidden inside his heavy sleeves while the page exchanged passwords with the guards on the gate. They too wore Warwick’s livery. The earl’s soldiers were everywhere in London, a visible reminder of who held the reins of power in England.

   The page escorted James through the echoing cavern of Westminster Hall, full of the buzz of voices as scribes and officials hurried about, loaded down with heaps of parchment and their own self-importance. Their ranks parted at the sight of the badge on the page’s chest. James took note of the blend of fear and uncertainty on many of the faces he passed.

   Panicky rumours and counter-rumours of invasion were sweeping through London on an almost hourly basis. Three days previously, a messenger from East Anglia had come galloping into the city with news that Edward of March’s fleet had been sighted off the coast at Cromer.

   Not a very discreet individual, his testimony had spread like a forest fire in high summer through the stews and taverns. Like all such stories, it had grown in the telling, and now many Londoners were convinced that Edward had assembled a mighty flotilla of several hundred warships, stuffed with thousands of savage foreign mercenaries.

   James, who had been present when the messenger made his initial report to Warwick, knew better. Even so, there was genuine cause for alarm, and he was unsurprised to find Warwick looking flushed and agitated when the page finally showed him into a smaller chamber adjoining the hall.

   There were four halberdiers guarding the door, and James’ eye was drawn to the large man standing at a far corner of the chamber. The fringes of a mail shirt gleamed under his livery jacket. A hideous purple scar twisted all the way from the left side of his temple, down his cheek and along the line of his unshaven jaw. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, and he regarded the visitors with narrow suspicion.

   A prize-fighter,
thought James,
Warwick is wrong to surround himself with such brutes.Men see that he is afraid, and so lose heart themselves.

   The earl was standing beside a table and staring at a piece of water-stained parchment he had unrolled and spread out flat. The string that had bound it lay on the floor, ripped apart and tossed aside by his impatient fingers.

   “Bolton,” he snapped, glancing up briefly, “you took your blasted time. Ralph, fuck off.”

   The page coloured, bowed, and hurried out. James squared his shoulders and prepared for a stormy interview.

   “The weather is foul, lord,” he said, “and there is enough shit in the streets to drown in. Hence my lateness, and the state of my clothes.”

   “Shut up,” Warwick growled, “I’m sick of excuses. There isn’t a soul under my command who doesn’t offer up excuses instead of action. You’ve heard the latest?”

   “A report reached me last night that the invasion fleet was scattered by a storm off the coast of Yorkshire,” James replied promptly, “but Edward managed to land and regroup with Gloucester and Rivers. The report was unclear as to how many soldiers they have. Edward was confident enough to march further inland. Beyond that I know nothing.”

   Warwick’s tired, red-rimmed eyes glared at him. “You fortunate man,” he said, leaning his knuckles on the table, “if only I could afford to be ignorant of the farce being played out in the north. Read this.”

   He turned the letter around and slid it across the table. James stepped closer and studied the shaky, smudged handwriting scrawled across the parchment.

   “Must have been written in a hurry,” he remarked, frowning as he struggled to make out words, “it says that the Yorkists marched towards Hull, but were challenged by a band of local men led by a squire named Martin de la See. The locals outnumbered Edward’s force by four or five to one, and could have made an end of them.”

   “Then and there!” yelled Warwick, smashing his first on the table, “they could have crushed Edward’s rabble and sent me his head in a bag.”

   James read on. Edward had been clever, and claimed that he only returned to England to reclaim his father’s old title of Duke of York, instead of the crown.

   Only a halfwit would have believed that, but it seemed that Martin de la See was not overburdened with brains. He had let the Yorkists pass unmolested.

    Some of Warwick’s anger filtered through to James. The agent who wrote the letter went on to say that Robert Hildyard was among the local levy, and a close friend of de la See.

   Hildyard had been pardoned the previous year by Edward for his part in the Yorkshire corn tax riots. James’ suspicious mind concluded that Hildyard’s gratitude to Edward for sparing his life had led him to persuade de la See to let the Yorkists pass.

   The letter ended by saying that Edward had marched on to Hull. James raised a finger to his lips. His hands were still trembling slightly, but he no longer cared who saw it.

   “There is a garrison at Hull,” he said, “they are well-paid, and should prove loyal. Edward will not be able to enter the town.” 

   “Unless the garrison listen to his lies,” said Warwick, “Edward will make all sorts of promises. They will believe him. He has the common touch.”

   James shrugged. “Let us say he enters Hull. What then? The reports I obtained in France said he failed to raise enough money from Burgundy to hire more than fifteen hundred soldiers. Fifteen hundred men and the Hull garrison are not much to be feared.”

   He studied the letter again. “Where are Montagu and Northumberland?” he asked. “They are supposed to be guarding the north against just such an invasion.”

    “Sitting on their rumps, staring at each other like a couple of wary cats,” Warwick said bitterly, “Montagu is at Pontefract Castle with all his power. Northumberland is on his estates somewhere. I don’t know if he has even raised any men yet. Neither of them trusts the other, or is prepared to make the first move against Edward.”    

   It occurred to James that Warwick had been foolish to place two such uncertain men in charge of the north, but the earl had already come to that conclusion.

   “I thought I could trust my own kin,” he said, running a hand through his greying brown hair, “Northumberland owes his reinstatement to Edward, but Montagu is my brother. Blood should tell, should it not?”

   James thought of his late brother Richard, that vengeful and unstable man, and said nothing. Besides, he was dreading what Warwick had in mind for him.

   “My agents in the north are sending back a stream of chaotic messages,” Warwick went on, “some of their accounts flatly contradict each other. That one I showed you is the most coherent. I need a trusted man to go up there and see what is really happening.”

   James’ spirits sank. It was pretty obvious who that trusted man was going to be, and even more so when Warwick produced a fresh roll of vellum from his belt. The red wax of the seal was barely dry.

   “You will take this letter to my brother at Pontefract,” he said, holding up the vellum, “it is written in my hand.”

   “Yes, lord,” said James, taking the letter with a show of enthusiasm. It would do him no good, especially in his master’s current mood, to let any doubt or reluctance show.

   “Take twelve archers for an escort,” Warwick added, “the roads are dangerous, and I cannot speak for the state of the country north of the Trent.”

   He smiled sourly. “Your family have sapped my resources of late. I gave your brother forty men to take into Staffordshire, and have yet to hear from him.”

   James could only wonder how Martin was faring. The brothers had enjoyed scant opportunity to get to know each other in France. James was too busy with his diplomatic and espionage work.

   In their few snatched conversations together James had been left with the impression that his last and youngest brother was their father come again: tall, physically impressive, blunt and honest, with the hint of a violent temper under his usually placid demeanour.

   The memory of their slaughtered father still caused James pain, and for that reason he had found Martin’s company difficult.

   Yet he wanted to see him again. He wanted all his family together again, safe and happy around the hearth at Heydon Court.

   “He will do his duty, I am sure, lord,” he said politely.

   “So will you,” Warwick replied, “and you can make a start as soon as the horses and men are ready.”

   James set off at noon, on a horse supplied by Warwick and with a dozen of the earl’s mounted archers at his back. The weather was still vile, and set to remain so for the rest of the day.

  He had little desire to be heading north into wild and difficult country full of dangerous men with shifting loyalties. He had long since tired of serving as messenger and general errand to Warwick and other great lords, and knew that one day it would lead him into trouble. Only a residual sense of loyalty to the House of Lancaster, and the desire to avenge his dead kin, kept him at his work.

  
Once the Yorkists are utterly crushed
, he vowed silently as his horse floundered along the muddy, ill-kept highway,
I will go in search of a better life. Home, perhaps, assuming there is anything left of it.

  
He was lying to himself. Heydon Court held too many bad memories, and was haunted by too many ghosts, for James to ever feel comfortable there again.