Loyalty (16 page)

   The road north led through Saint Albans, the scene of two pitched battles between Lancaster and York. Richard Bolton had fought at the second, where the old Duke of Somerset had routed the Earl of Warwick, in the days when Warwick was still Edward of March’s friend.

   James had to smile. The tangled skein of loyalties was enough to make one’s head spin, and pointless to keep track of. Warwick was a ruthless self-server who used men and then cast them aside when they ceased to be of any worth.

   He was using King Henry as a puppet to justify his seizure of power – now his role was all but played out, James wondered how long Henry would be allowed to live – and would happily use James until he collapsed, like a tired old workhorse.

   It struck him, as they rode past the market cross in the high street of Saint Albans, that Warwick would never allow James to leave his service. James knew too much, had been privy to too many clandestine meetings and secret documents, to simply be allowed to retire.

   Warwick might regard his desire to leave as a betrayal. The earl had an uncomplicated attitude towards treachery, as the scores of rotting heads spiked above the gates of many English towns and cities bore witness to.

   By the time they reached Northampton, where James called a halt for the night at a tavern outside the town walls, he had made a decision. Once his present mission was accomplished, and he had sent reliable word back to London of the Yorkist movements, he would go in search of his brother. Warwick would expect him to return to London, but Warwick’s desires were no longer his priority.

   The earl had extracted a great deal of sweat and labour out of James, for not much tangible reward. He had plenty of other servants. Given the unstable condition of England, he might simply assume that James had been ambushed on the road and had his throat cut.   

   There was the problem of the archers, though. James studied them as he sat beside the fire in the tavern and nursed a cup of the hateful small beer. They were a rough lot, as soldiers were, and their chief aim in life was to pour as much strong ale down their well-muscled throats as possible.

   He wasn’t fooled. Even in his cups, their captain was careful to keep James in sight. Two of the archers dogged his steps at all times, even when he went to relieve himself in the narrow alley behind the tavern. 

   Despite their vigilance, James felt confident he could slip away when the time came. For now, he maintained the pretence of a loyal servant, focused entirely on the mission ahead.

   As they rode further into the Midlands, they met with a stream of fugitives heading south down the Great North Road. There were few civilians among them. Most were soldiers and officials loyal to Lancaster, and had deserted their posts in the face of the advancing Yorkist army.

   “Army?” James demanded of one man, a pinch-faced scribe from York, “Edward of March has a few hundred mercenaries and traitors at his back. You call that an army?”

   The scribe cowered at his severe tone. “The city fathers at York opened their gates to him, sir,” he said, “only Edward himself and fourteen of his men were allowed to enter, but the sympathies of the people were clear. They cheered his name and called him King Edward IV. Those loyal to King Henry, such as me, were booed and spat at in the streets. I had to get away before my throat was slit.”

   “A few curses and a bit of phlegm were hardly going to kill you,” said James, though he could empathise a little. Edward had the gift of courting popularity, and might easily sway the fickle affections of a mob.  

   “We should hang this little turd for desertion,” growled the captain, glaring at the terrified scribe.

   “No time,” James said quickly, not wishing to have any blood on his hands. Before the other man could argue, he spurred on. His archers were obliged to follow, and left the scribe to thank God for a lucky escape.

   As they approached Nottingham, James managed to glean more news from those he encountered on the road. Edward had left York and marched to Sandal Castle at Wakefield, his family home and the scene of his father’s defeat and death eleven years previously.

   If he hoped to gather recruits from his father’s old tenants, he was disappointed, for the ranks of his little army failed to swell. There was no word of Montagu and Northumberland, even though both were still in a position to swoop down on the Yorkists and wipe them out.

   James was in a pensive mood when he arrived in sight of Nottingham’s walls. He knew that Edward had often used the city as a base, and that the loyalties of the people would be suspect.

   He bore in mind the words of the York scribe, and decided against entering the city. Crowspur Castle lay somewhere to the north-west, and was held by Lord Bulstrode, a staunch Lancastrian and ally of Montagu. Bulstrode, if anyone, would know would the Marquis was planning.

   The road to Crowspur was an offshoot of the main highway that ran like an artery through the heart of England. It was winding, even more ill-kept, and led through dark forests that harked back to an earlier age, before man conquered the wild.

   James found himself longing for the gentle rolling hills and tranquil forests of Staffordshire, and avoided glancing at the trees. All sorts of spirits might lurk in there, remnants of the old gods that had escaped the purge of Christianity.

   The walls and towers of Crowspur Castle, when they finally came into view, were scant comfort. It was an evil-looking place, with no attempt made to soften the brutal functionality of its design. Crumbling grey walls and battlements like broken teeth loomed over the surrounding woods, putting James in mind of some slumbering giant.

   The royal arms flew from the turrets of the keep, alongside the red griffon and crossed swords of Lord Bulstrode.

   Bulstrode was in residence, and greeted James with distracted cordiality. “You are welcome, of course,” he boomed, crushing James’ hand in both his great paws, “any servant of my lord Warwick is welcome inside these walls. But we are busy, as you can see.”

   James didn’t need to be told. The outer ward of the castle was an armed camp, full of neat rows of tents and bustling with military activity.Archers in Bulstrode’s livery shot at lines of straw targets, while groups of men-at-arms were drilling, or sparred in pairs with swords and bucklers. Thick plumes of blackish smoke rose from the chimney of a busy forge inside the inner ward.

   He made a quick head-count.Some two hundred men, a reasonable muster for a lord of Bulstrode’s middling status. Not enough to oppose the Yorkist advance by themselves, though it might come to that if Montagu and Northumberland remained inert.

   “I didn’t care to stay in Nottingham,” he said, “the citizens are far too fond of Edward, and I don’t trust them to close the gates against him when he marches south. Assuming he does.”

   Bulstrode puffed out his heavy cheeks. “You are late with your information, Master Bolton. Come into the hall and I will tell you the latest.”

   The big nobleman took James into the inner ward, leaving Warwick’s archers to eat their rations and mingle with Bulstrode’s men.

   Crowspur was cheerless enough from the outside, and the interior was just as James imagined, cold and smelly and cheerless. The hall had been cleared of furniture save for one small table, upon which was spread a yellowed map of England, held in place with stones at each corner.

   “Like Warwick, I have my spies,” said Bulstrode, “they keep me well-informed of the doings in the north. You know that Montagu and Northumberland are sitting idle, like a couple of farts in a daydream?”

   James nodded. “Warwick is ready to tear their guts out,” he said, and pointed at Wakefield on the map, “what news of Edward? Is he skulking in his father’s castle, or has he moved?”

   “Give the usurper his due, he is a man of action,” replied Bulstrode, “he didn’t linger at Sandal, and must be at Doncaster by now.”

   James gnawed a knuckle. At this rate Edward would march all the way to London with just fifteen hundred men. The people would doubtless open the gates to him, as they had at York, and the usurper would win back his throne without a drop of blood being shed.

   Bulstrode hadn’t finished. “Edward has struggled to attract men to his banner,” he said, “but now that he has got so far without being challenged, some lords are marching to join him. My spies tell me that Sir William Dudley has declared for King Edward IV, and is leading a hundred or so of his retainers north. Sir William Parr and Sir James Harrington have marched from Lancashire with six hundred men-at-arms.”     

   Dudley, Parr and Harrington. James was familiar with the names. They had been high on a list of potential traitors Warwick drew up shortly after his coup. All three were diehard Yorkists. Oxford had recommended that they be imprisoned alongside Norfolk and the Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tower, but Warwick was anxious to keep the peace.   

   Some peace he had maintained. “Still, that is not much more than two thousand men,” said James, trying to be positive, “if only someone would move to block his progress!”

   Bulstrode pointed his stubby index finger at various parts of the Midlands and East Anglia. “They have. This morning I heard that Oxford has moved up from the south-east, and joined with Lord Beaumont and the Duke of Exeter. They have scraped together a thousand or so men, and are marching on Newark.”

   James gazed at the map. Thank God for Oxford. At least he was not prepared to sit on his rump and allow all the recent Lancastrian gains to slip away.

   “If Oxford holds Newark,” he said slowly, tracing a line down the spine of England with his thumb, “and either Montagu or Northumberland, preferably both, advance south, Edward will be caught between two fires.”

   James clapped his hands together. “Encircled and crushed, like a nut in a vice,” he said, “and that will be the end of this Yorkist plague. My lord, you must march at once to reinforce Oxford. Indeed, you should have done so already.”

   Bulstrode’s toad-like features filled with angry blood. He was plainly not used to being given orders or admonished in his own hall, and struggling to keep a check on his temper.

   James was unimpressed. He was Warwick’s official envoy. This flyspeck country baron dared not lay a finger on him.

   “See here,” he said, withdrawing Warwick’s letter to his brother from the leather case at his belt, “this bears our lord’s seal. I am charged with delivering it to Montagu in person. That is my duty, Lord Bulstrode. Yours is to sally out with your men and prepare to meet Edward of March in battle.”

   The other man swelled even further, until James feared he might burst a vessel in his thick neck.

   With a visible effort of will, Bulstrode managed to control himself. “My intent was to march out tomorrow,” he said, his little eyes sparkling with fury, “but not to Newark. The Earl of Oxford is no friend of mine. I will go north, to meet my lord Montagu at Pontefract. So it seems we are headed in the same direction.”       

   His thick lips creased into a joyless smile. “Be my guest here tonight, and dine with me. Tomorrow we can ride north together.”

   James could hardly refuse – he had not planned where to stay the night – and that evening found him seated at high table to the right of Lord Bulstrode. His archers were on the lower benches among the servants and garrison soldiers.

   Throughout the meal their captain kept a suspicious eye on James. He was a wary one, and James suspected was under orders from Warwick. The slightest deviation from his task, the barest hint of treachery, and James would receive the captain’s knife in his liver.

  
This is how Warwick treats men who have served him loyally for years
, thought James, chewing on a tough slice of roast beef cut from the joint.
Fool. If he shows men nothing but distrust, why should they trust him?
      

   Bulstrode was still smouldering, and said little during the meal. He filled the awkward silence at high table by ordering his musicians to play in the space between the lower tables. They were a sloppy, clumsy set, clearly petrified of their master, and the dirges they cranked out made James’ head ache.

   He almost swallowed a bone when Bulstrode’s Fool made an appearance, shambling out of a side-door in a horned cap and a garish patched cloak fringed with little bells.   

   “My Fool was once a man,” said Bulstrode, nudging James with one giant elbow, “or at least, a man to look at. Inside he was nothing but shit, so I made him wear a cap and bells. Dance for us, Fool!”

   The Fool tried to oblige. He made a pitiful show, hopping from one foot to the other and waving his arms in a doomed effort to keep time with the music.

   His cap was like a helmet, and partially covered his face, with little eye-holes cut into the leather. The lower part of his face, disfigured by a greasy, matted growth of beard, was visible.

   James gaped at the Fool for a few seconds. Not much shook his composure, or so he liked to think, but he suddenly felt the need for a very stiff drink. He had to speak, before the urge became overwhelming and he emptied the nearest wine jug.

   “Tell me, my lord,” he said in a voice that trembled under the strictest control, “are you much in the habit of employing noblemen as menials?”

   Bulstrode grinned at him. “Recognise him, do you?”