Loyalty (22 page)

   Why did she not turn Dacre away? It would be the fair and wise thing to do. Yet, despite herself, she felt drawn to him. He was an amusing companion, with a kind heart, and was of an age with her. Handsome as well, in a battered sort of way. Mary had slept alone for too long not be aware of such things.

   More than that, there was a kind of empathy between them. Both had lost people they loved in recent years. She could read Dacre’s pain, his desperate longing for salvation, and feared what might happen to him if he never achieved it.

   Pity, loneliness, lust and genuine affection for him warred inside her. Unable to reconcile her feelings, she did her best to set them aside.

   He was waiting for her to finish her sentence. There was concern in his expression, mixed with something else. Uncertainty? Suspicion, even? Dacre’s hatred for the Yorkists was inexhaustible, and driven by his guilt for failing to save his sons at Towton. He tolerated nothing good to be said about Yorkists in his presence – he referred to Edward of March simply as ‘the enemy’ – and would not hesitate to report the slightest hint of treachery. 

  
Even from me
, she thought. Not that Mary was any sort of a traitor, but in the privacy of her devotions she had often questioned God’s motives in promoting York over Lancaster. Could it be that the Yorkists had justice on their side after all, and were right to break their sacred oaths of allegiance to Henry VI? Even the most ardent Lancastrian could find little merit in Henry’s kingship. All their hopes now were pinned on his son.  

   These were dangerous thoughts, and she was careful never to express them. Even James, the most intelligent of her brothers, would look askance at her. The restoration of the House of Lancaster, after so many years of defeat and exile, would require absolute and unquestioning loyalty. There was no room for doubts.

   “I have wondered,” she said, “what must be happening in England, while our fleet lies stranded in port. I pray that the Earl of Warwick has done nothing rash.”

   “The enemy is a better soldier than he, certainly,” said Dacre, pouring some more cheap wine, “Warwick’s reputation as a soldier rests on shaky foundations. Most of his victories have been down to treachery rather than any great skill as a general. If he has any sense, he will hole up behind strong walls and wait for us to sail. All of the enemy’s artillery is kept inside the Tower of London, and we hold the capital.”

   Mary gazed into the blood-red contents of her cup. In her mind’s eye she pictured vast hosts marching across England. She saw thousands of men meet in battle on some desolate heath, and rend each other like wild beasts. There were no victors. Like the slaughter of Camlann in Arthurian legend, both sides simply wiped each other, leaving a handful of survivors to limp away from the carnage as best they may.

   Please God
, she prayed silently,
come victory or defeat, let my brothers be among the survivors.
 

   The moment Mary had hoped and dreaded arrived the following morning, when she woke up and threw back the shutters to find herself looking out at clear skies and calm seas. Dacre was right. The storm had broken.

   She shook her daughter awake in the bed they shared. “God has taken away the thunder and lightning,” she said, “and given us a clear path to England.”

   Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Can we go home now?” she asked.

   “In good time,” said Mary, “and if the Lord permits.”    

  
Chapter 21

One of the few pieces of advice Martin’s brother had given him, before departing this life, was to know when to quit a battle. Richard knew of what he spoke. Before his well of luck ran dry at Empingham, he had survived the Lancastrian routs at Blore Heath and Towton by trusting to his heels and wits. 

   “Look to your own safety first,” he said to Martin before the victory at Edgecote, “if the line starts to break, then run. One man alone cannot turn the tide of a battle, and you do your cause little good by embracing death.”

   Martin had borne these words in mind, and put them to good use at Barnet. As soon as the full scale of the catastrophe became apparent, with the Lancastrian army collapsing all around him, he turned and fled. 

   He was merely one of the swarm of fugitives that scrambled through the fog. Many had lost their wits completely. Consumed by panic, they ran in all directions, and were easy meat for the Yorkist horsemen riding in pursuit.

   Through sheer good fortune, Martin was able to find the hedge that Oxford’s division had initially taken up position behind. With the sounds of screaming and killing and futile pleas for mercy ringing in his ears, he crouched under the thick brush and prayed that the rout would pass him by.

   Martin’s armour was drenched in enough blood from the men he had killed to make him pass for a casualty. He lay on his front, one arm draped over his face, legs splayed out. His brother had pulled off a similar trick at Towton, and been able to crawl to safety when darkness fell.

   He remained in this position for what seemed like hours. Several times he heard horsemen thunder past, and once a Lancastrian soldier hurling curses at his enemies as he sold his life dearly.

   “Cowards,” the man cried above the crash of blades, “your souls to the devil, can four of you not take down one wounded man?”

   Martin knew he should have emerged from his shameful hiding-place and helped his comrade. If nothing else, they could at least die well together,and take a few Yorkists with them.

   The sneering, wolfish face of the Gascon pirate, Captain Philippé, appeared in his mind. Such idiotic romantic notions, the captain would say, were the preserve of fools and lunatics.

   Martin decided to live. At that moment all his old notions of chivalry and honour, dinned into his head since childhood, atrophied and died.

   Afterwards, when the soldier was dead, he heard the Yorkists deep in conversation as they stripped his corpse. He almost fouled himself when he realised that they were bound to spot him at any moment, half-hidden under the hedge, and come to investigate. Just another corpse, they would think. More easy pickings.

   His fingers curled about the hilt of his dagger. The first Yorkist to lay a hand on him would find that this corpse retained a sting.

   Fortunately, a Yorkist captain called his men away. Grumbling and swearing at the interruption, they departed. Their voices gradually faded out of hearing.      

   Martin remained where he was, waiting for silence to fall over the stricken field. Hours passed. The dreaded cramp stole back over his limbs, rising to an almost unbearable crescendo of pain, but still he dared not move. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he bit back the agony.

   The battle had been fought in early morning mist, and was over by seven o’clock at the latest. That meant he had an entire day to wait for the cover of darkness. He could not afford to wait that long. Looters were picking their way over the field, local peasants as well as Yorkists. Someone was bound to discover him before long.

   Such risk had to be turned to his advantage. Martin waited, like a sea predator waiting patiently on the ocean floor for its prey to come along.

   After some time had passed – he had no idea how long – he heard the clop of hoofs, and the jingle of harness as a rider dismounted.

   Heavy footsteps thumped slowly over the grass. They stopped for a moment, doubtless while the newcomer inspected what was left of the soldier Martin had failed to aid. 

   “Greedy fuckers,” he heard someone mutter under his breath. Clearly the soldier’s body had been thoroughly ransacked.

   The footsteps thumped closer. A shadow fell across Martin’s back. Rough fingers crawled across his neck, searching for a pulse. Before they could find it Martin ripped out his dagger and stabbed upwards.

   He had to draw with his left hand, not his favoured side, but God blessed his aim. The tip of his blade thrust easily into the soft jelly of the man’s eyeball.

   His victim started to scream. Martin rolled onto his side and clapped his free hand over the Yorkist’s face, desperate to stifle the noise before anyone heard.

   A powerful hand clamped onto Martin’s wrist. He looked up at a bearded, rough-hewn face, contorted in agony.

   He shifted his grip, seized the man’s throat and dragged him down. A brief, frenzied struggle ensued. Martin managed to withdraw his dagger and tried to stab his foe in the heart. The Yorkist, half-blinded and crazed with pain, thrashed and struck out wildly.

   Martin’s superior weight and strength told. He pinned his enemy down and forced the dagger up under his ribcage.

   “Please,” the Yorkist rasped, choking out the words while Martin’s steel fingers pressed on his windpipe, “please…”

   He struggled and shuddered violently as the blade slid home. Martin lay on top of him until the spasms had ceased, shifting his hand to cover the dying man’s face.  

   Once he was dead, Martin threw caution aside and struggled to his feet. Ignoring the tearing pain in his cramped, aching muscles, he quickly scanned the field for any signs of life.

   Save for the Yorkist’s horse, there were none. The fog had lifted somewhat, but tendrils of mist still drifted across the field, curling about fallen banners and broken bodies. Many of the slain had been entirely stripped of armour and clothing, and lay naked as new-born babes, waiting to be thrown into mass graves.

   Martin could hear voices, carried on the wind. There were still plenty of scavengers about. No doubt some Yorkist soldiers were also present, searching the field for survivors. The bodies of Exeter and Montagu, as well as lesser Lancastrian lords, would make fine trophies.

   He sheathed his bloody dagger and carefully approached the horse, not wishing to alarm her. She was a chestnut mare, small and compact, of the sort that common archers rode and were called rounceys.    

   Thankfully, she appeared to be an even-tempered creature, and stood peacefully cropping the grass while her master lay dead, just a few feet away.

   “Gently,” he breathed, his armour clanking as he moved closer, “gently, now.”

   He made a grab for the reins. She made no attempt to shy away, but merely lifted her head and regarded him quizzically as he stroked her neck and heaved himself into the saddle.      

   With a last look over the battlefield, and at the body under the hedge, he wheeled the rouncey about and urged her into a gallop.

Chapter 22

London, 16
th
April

After his victory at Barnet King Edward led his battered but elated army back to London. He took with him the bodies of Warwick and Montagu, intending them to put them on public display at Saint Paul’s, so all could see they were truly dead.

   Edward appreciated the power of rumour. He bore in mind the stories of Hotspur surviving the Battle of Shrewsbury, back in his grandsire’s day, and stealing away from the field to plan fresh risings in the north. Henry Bolingbroke, the first Lancastrian king, had quashed them by hanging Hotspur’s naked body in the marketplace of Shrewsbury between two mill-wheels.

   The mortal remains of Warwick and Montagu were destined for more respectful treatment.

   “Strip the bodies of their armour. Have them washed and perfumed and dressed in fresh linen,” he ordered his servants charged with the gruesome task, “I want no offensive smells in the cathedral, and no man accusing me of gloating over their deaths.”

   His brothers did not agree on much, but both were perplexed at his attitude.

   “You are the conqueror,” said Clarence, “and should be seen to behave like one. Have the bodies beheaded and quartered, and despatch the pieces to be displayed in every English city. Let their heads be spiked over London Bridge, as befits traitors.”

   Gloucester nodded in approval, but Edward would not hear of it. “I see Warwick’s death has caused you few problems,” he said, regarding Clarence with distaste, “have you no pity for your old crony?”

   Clarence had the grace to blush. “I have repented of my sins,” he mumbled.

   “Indeed, you deserted your friends just in time,” said Gloucester, “else we would be scrubbing and anointing your fat carcase to be put on display.”

   Edward intervened before any more harsh words were said. “Peace, you two,” he said with a scowl, “we have won a great victory. I will not have it soured with petty squabbles.”

   A victory, he reflected, but not final victory. Even as he sat resting in his tent after Barnet, almost prostrate with exhaustion and grief for the passing of Warwick, his one-time friend and ally, a messenger had arrived with news that Margaret of Anjou’s fleet had been sighted off the coast near Weymouth.   

   The recent storms had scattered the English fleet, and there was nothing to prevent her landing. Knowing it was foolish to force-march his tired army west to fight another battle so soon, Edward had retired to London. There he waited, sick at heart of fighting but not daring to show it, for fresh news of the queen’s movements.

   Warwick and Montagu were laid out in state at Saint Paul’s, just as he had ordered. People flocked to the cathedral in their hundreds to look at them. They departed, so Edward hoped, in absolute certainty that the souls of the Nevill brothers had fled, and their cause was dust.