Loyalty (28 page)

   The driver whipped up the horses as soon as the door closed, and the bulky vehicle slewed about and rattled off north, back towards the town.

   Mary had her own horse, a swift courser, and sat astride the saddle like a man.

   “Go,” James said urgently, “don’t wait for me. Follow the carriage. God see you safe.”

   “And you, James,” she replied sadly. He watched her gallop away, and then turned back to the rout.

   His eyes searched for any sign of his brother. Martin had been stationed close to the prince’s standard, but it had vanished. The sigil of the white hawk was also gone, lost among the sea of struggling bodies that covered the ridge.

   James hesitated, unable to decide whether to ride after his sister or search for his brother.

  
Lord, you have preserved Martin thus far
, he prayed silently,
so I must beseech you to save him again.

  
With a last regretful glance at the battlefield, he wheeled his horse and spurred after the distant carriage.

   The Queen fled in vain. There was no obvious escape route open to her, since the town and the river lay to the north. King Edward was quick to send horsemen in pursuit.

   Since escape was virtually impossible, her only alternative was to seek sanctuary. Her carriage made for a small church on the southern outskirts of Tewkesbury, and skidded to a halt outside the gate.

   The knights swiftly dismounted and demanded entry, while the Queen and her ladies tumbled out of the carriage.

   James brought up the rear. “Inside,” he shouted at Mary as he dragged back on his reins and vaulted from the saddle, “they are close behind us.”

   White-faced, Mary snatched up her daughter and hurried up the steps to the porch. Dacre was hammering on the door with the hilt of his sword. The door opened a crack, and he booted it wide open and shoved aside the elderly monk who peered at him from the shadows.

   They ran into the cool, candle-lit nave of the church. James was last in, and glanced nervously at the rapidly advancing cloud of dust approaching from the south.

   “The Yorkists are coming,” he said, pushing the heavy door shut, “but this is a house of God. Even traitors will not dare shed blood in here.”

   “None of the Queen’s, certainly,” said Dacre, drawing his sword. James groaned.

   “Put the damn thing away, man,” he said angrily, “Christ save us, have we not had enough of swords for one day? Let us try words instead.”

   “You would chop words with traitors?” Dacre answered warmly, but Mary placed her hand on his shoulder.

   “Peace,” she said soothingly, “my brother only wishes the best for us.”

   They were interrupted by the sound of horses drawing up outside, and a man’s voice ordering his men to follow him into the church.

   “I know that voice,” said another of the Queens’s knights, “it is that dog Gloucester. The usurper has sent his brother to take us.”

   “I’ll not be taken prisoner,” declared Dacre, “God keep Your Majesty. And you, Mary. I have seen you safe to sanctuary, and must go to my dear ones.”

   He rushed to the door, heaved it open and rushed outside, followed by two of his fellow knights. Only one hung back, clearly unwilling to die just yet.

   Mary rushed towards the door, but James seized her wrist. “What did he mean by that?” he demanded, “his dear ones?”

   “He means his wife and children,” she cried in anguish, “they are dead, and he has gone to join them. Release me, curse you!”

   “And let you hurry to your death after him? Have sense, Mary. Think of your daughter.”

   She struggled to get free, but James was the stronger, and dragged her back into the nave. Steel rang outside, mingled with shouts.

   “My brave men,” said the Queen, her voice sounding hollow and lifeless, “so many brave men have died for me. Now I am beaten, and I have failed them all.”

   “Oh God,” she whispered, clasping her hands, “where is my son?”

   Her famous icy composure was starting to crack, like a pane of glass under too much weight. James, who could not bear to see any woman’s sorrow, refused to watch her fall apart.

   There was no point locking and barring the door. They could hardly hold the church against a siege, and James would do nothing that risked harm to the Queen. It remained only to ensure that she was not ill-treated.

   Outside the sound of fighting had stopped. Dacre and his comrades had given their lives in a last, futile gesture of defiance.

   Soon afterwards the door rumbled open, and a troop of soldiers marched in. They wore light armour, open helms and linen jacks, and the badges on their chests displayed the white boar of Gloucester.

   Grim-faced and silent, they spread out to surround the Queen and her company. James noticed that several of them had fresh blood on their hands. Some of it, no doubt, had belonged to Dacre.

   There was a tense pause, and then a short, lightly-built man appeared in the doorway. He had a naked dagger in his hand, and was wiping the blade on a cloth. Once it was clean, he tossed away the bloody cloth and slid the dagger back into its sheath.

   He advanced into the candlelight. He walked with a limp, and had a bandage wrapped tightly about the upper part of his armoured left thigh.

   “Well, now,” he said in a softly lilting voice, “we have run our quarry to earth at last.”

   This, James realised, must be Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. The richness of his armour, and the Plantagenet arms on his surcoat indicated no less, though the latter were mired with blood and filth from the battlefield.  

   Even at eighteen, Gloucester enjoyed something of a reputation. James had heard all sorts of rumours about the duke’s physical deformities, and was almost disappointed to discover the reality. Gloucester’s only physical blemish was in the set of his shoulders. The left was slightly higher, just a couple of inches or so, enough to make the disparity noticeable when seen at close quarters.

   His face was round and pale, framed by shoulder-length black hair, currently rank with sweat and blood. Otherwise he was unremarkable, though James recognised the lively intelligence in his brown eyes.

   The Queen’s single remaining knight put himself between the duke and his mistress. “You shall not touch her,” he said in a shaking voice, half-drawing his sword.

   Gloucester looked him up and down, and gave a low chuckle. “Very commendable,” he said, “rest assured, sir knight, I have no intention of touching any part of Margaret of Anjou. Lay your sword on the floor and step aside. Now, or you die.”

   The duke’s voice suddenly had an edge to it, and the knight was quick to obey.

   “You are speaking of the Queen of England, my lord,” said James, “have the grace to address her in the proper manner.”

   Gloucester looked at James as though noticing him for the first time. “A red-haired priest,” he mused, pulling at his lower lip, “my spies have often spoken of such a man in the service of the late Earl of Warwick. I warrant you are he.”

   He flicked a finger in the Queen’s direction. “You are mistaken. That woman is not the Queen of anything. She is nothing but a used-up, defeated, childless French bitch.”

   He placed special emphasis on ‘childless’. James bowed his head as the import sank in. Behind him Margaret uttered a low, drawn-out keening wail, gradually rising to a hideous shriek as every last shred of her composure fell away.

   “My son,” she moaned, sinking to the floor and hiding her head in her hands, “my dear, sweet son. Edward…”

   Forgetting her own sorrow, Mary knelt to support her, along with the other women present. There was nothing they could do or say to comfort their mistress, now utterly destroyed by grief.

   “You beast,” James spat at the duke, “you sadistic beast. Could you not have spared her that sorrow, at least for a time?”

   Gloucester’s thin mouth hitched into a smile. “You have fire, priest,” he said approvingly, “I like that. Holy men should have a bit of spite and bile in them. Perhaps I shall keep you for a while.”

   No longer caring for his safety, James would have heaped more abuse on the duke, but then another man strode confidently into the church, flanked by two archers.

   His appearance struck James dumb. Sir Geoffrey Malvern cut a far more impressive figure than the last time James saw him, in the woods beyond Crowspur Castle. His armour was spotless, and his handsome, neatly-bearded face bore not a speck of dirt or blood.

   True to his character, Geoffrey had evidently shared in the Yorkist victory, without risking an inch of his own precious skin.  

   “Well met, James,” he cried, his white teeth flashing in a grin. “We have seen a great deal of each other in recent times, as good friends should.”

   “I am no friend of yours, Malvern,” James replied, but without much venom. Geoffrey’s unexpected appearance seemed like a cruel joke.

   He knew now that he should have killed the man when he had the opportunity. A feral light danced in Geoffrey’s eyes, and he had clearly come to extract his final vengeance on the Boltons.

   “My lord,” said Geoffrey, turning to the duke, “your royal brother said I might have my pick of prisoners, in return for my service today. I choose this man, James Bolton, and his kinsfolk, Mary and Elizabeth.”

   Gloucester had watched the exchange between James and Geoffrey with mild interest. “My brother is always too generous,” he said, “you can have the woman and the girl, but the priest is mine.”

   Geoffrey was not one to argue, certainly not with royalty. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, with a little bow.

   Gloucester’s soldiers moved in to seize their prisoners. The women, including Mary, were roughly pulled away from the crumpled figure of the Queen, still wracked with sobs. Elizabeth tried to run to her mother’s side, but one of the soldiers grabbed her round the waist and picked her up.

   “Don’t harm her!” Mary cried, struggling to break free from the man who held her. One of his mates helped him to drag her away into a corner.

   Geoffrey’s archers, both of whom wore Malvern’s livery, pinned James’ arms behind his back and bound his wrists.

   “Now our roles are reversed,” said Geoffrey, leaning in to gloat into James’ ear, “shall I tell you what is going to happen to your womenfolk?”

   James screwed his eyes shut and hung his head. He never wanted to hear Geoffrey Malvern’s voice again this side of Heaven or Hell, but had no choice save to listen.

   “I know your sister has always dreamed of the religious life, and I certainly don’t want her cluttering up Malvern Hall and Heydon Court with her dreary presence. Oh yes, the King – the real King, not that shabby lunatic who still haunts the Tower – has granted me all your family’s lands and estates. Isn’t that generous of him?”

   James shuddered, but still there was no escape. “I have it in mind to make Mary happy, and consign her to a nunnery. One where there is a vow of silence. To prevent her chafing under such a strict rule, I will first have her tongue cut out.”

   “As for the little girl,” Geoffrey went on remorselessly, while James stared at him in disbelieving horror, “I have special plans for her. All the females of your family are whores, of course, so it seems only fitting that she should earn her bread by lying on her back.”   Somehow James found his voice. “She…she is barely ten years old,” he gasped. “For God’s sake, you cannot mean it!”

   “I can, and not for God’s sake either, but my father’s. When I heard that he was murdered, beheaded in his own yard by your foul brother, I swore that I would take your family apart, piece by piece. And so I have. It was I who slew Henry of Stafford at Towton. I skewered him with a lance from behind. He cursed me as he died, but still he died, and I became a viscount.”

   James sagged in the arms of the men holding him. It was too much, and the last dregs of his resolve were almost spent. “But the girl,” he managed, “she is just a child. I beg you…beg of you…”

   Geoffrey slapped him across the face. “Yes, beg, pig,” he sneered, “beg all you like. Your poor little niece is going to pay for the crimes of the Boltons, over and over again, until some man kills her or she puts an end to herself. I will give her to the soldiers. Rough types, some of them, and they like their flesh tender. Elizabeth’s youth will be very much to their taste.”

   He slapped James again, and then straightened up and exhaled, as though some great weight had lifted from his shoulders.

   “Good-bye, James Bolton,” he said cheerfully, “I trust you enjoy being detained at his lordship’s pleasure. Think of me often in your cold dungeon, and regret the night you chose to spare my life.”

   With that, he turned and swaggered towards the door. The rest of the prisoners, including Mary and Margaret of Anjou, were already being taken out under Gloucester’s watchful eye.

   James was the last. He shuffled along automatically, like a man in a dream, oblivious of the cuffs and hard words of the soldiers who kicked and shoved him outside.

   He was alone, quite alone, in a world of misery. His sorrow and despair was not for himself, but his family, who he had failed so miserably to protect. The guilt would haunt him forever, all through the long years of imprisonment.