Loyalty (9 page)

   Martin was ready for that, and had rehearsed his answer. “Staffordshire is a rat’s nest of Yorkists, lord. Viscount Malvern is one of them. I mean to smoke them out, and hang him from the rafters of his own hall.”

   “Malvern will have fled the country,” said Warwick, “I had hoped he would abandon York and come over to our side, but he has not come to London. If I am right, you will find nothing to hang.”

   “There are other Yorkist lords in the county,” Martin insisted, “and the Sheriff himself is a staunch Yorkist. They may have ravaged my lands in my absence. Give me a few men-at-arms, lord, and let me crack a few heads together.”

   Warwick sighed, and considered for a moment, stroking his neat russet beard. Martin was deliberately playing on his paranoia, a crude tactic, but one that was likely to pay off.

   He knew – everyone in London knew - that Edward and his few remaining supporters had managed to get out of England, and hired a ship to take them to the Low Countries. Almost captured en route by hostile Hanseatic vessels, Edward sailed into Holland just half a step ahead of his pursuers, and threw himself on the mercy of Louis of Bruges, governor of Holland on behalf of the Duke of Burgundy, Edward’s brother-in-law.

   Edward had been busy since, and was desperately trying to claw together enough money and troops to take back his kingdom. While he begged for a loan from Burgundy, Warwick was no less busy in arranging England’s defences. He had already issued commissions of array to nobles to raise men up and down the country.

   In the light of all this, he could hardly refuse Martin’s request. “Very well,” he said after a pause, “you may return to Staffordshire, but not just to pursue your own interests. You will carry a commission of array, and the power to grant the King’s pardon to any Yorkists in the county who wish to make their peace. I can spare you fifty…no…thirty hobelars and ten men-at-arms for the task.”

   Martin’s heart swelled, but Warwick silenced his effusive thanks with another frown.

   “Mark this,” he said, wagging his finger, “if you find Viscount Malvern, and he asks for mercy, then he can have it. I care not what personal grudge you hold against him. You will spare his life, and send him under guard to me. Is that understood?”

   “Yes, lord,” replied Martin with a bow, hiding his disappointment.

   “Good.” Warwick briskly rubbed his hands. “I will have a clerk make the arrangements, just as soon as these dogs stop pawing at me.”

   He referred to the mob of petitioners, who pressed in around his table again as soon as Martin stepped back.

   Martin left London the next morning, happy to leave the fug of paranoia and conspiracy behind. He rode at the head of the soldiers Warwick had promised. They were a tough set, veterans of Edgecote and other battles. One or two claimed to have fought in France under the old Duke of Somerset, and witnessed the death of Talbot at Castillon. Martin was used to the boasting and exaggeration of soldiers, but felt secure and confident in their company.

   It was a two-day ride to Staffordshire, through a country largely unspoiled by the intermittent wars that had plagued it for over a decade. The private armies of the nobles might tear each other to bits on stricken battlefields, but they left the land and the mass of the people largely untouched. Unlike in France, where dynastic wars spelled ruin and catastrophe for the common folk, the majority of the bloodshed was reserved for the combatants.

   Still, the English had learned to be wary of large companies of armed men. Martin and his troops were offered every respect in the taverns they stayed at on the way, and given the best wine, food and lodging.

   They reached Tamworth, and stayed at an inn that Martin knew of named The Boar’s Head. There he enquired of the landlord if there had been any word or sighting of Sir Geoffrey Malvern in recent times.

   “He stayed the night here, not three weeks ago,” the man replied, “along with a few archers he brought with him out of Staffordshire. Didn’t say much, just sat in the corner and drank all night until his men had to carry him up to bed. He looked like he was drowning his sorrows to me. Or his fears.”

   “And then he rode where?” asked Martin, laying an extra farthing on the bar for the landlord’s trouble.      

   “East, I think. One of his archers told me they were headed for Nottingham, to join the king’s army.”

   “Have a care,” Martin said with a friendly smile, “there is only one King in England, and he is not Edward of March.”

   The landlord shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I take no heed of names. Edward or Henry, it is all one to me. One day York is up, the next day Lancaster. Why should I care who sits on the throne?”

   Martin found his attitude deplorable, but knew better than to quarrel, especially with so many of the landlord’s cronies seated nearby. The last thing he wanted was to get embroiled in a pot-house brawl.

  
Malvern can wait,
he thought to himself over supper,
it is Kate I came to see.

   He was torn between riding to Heydon Court first, just to look upon his childhood home once more, and his heart’s desire at Malvern Hall. In the end he plumped for the latter, and led his men at a hard gallop across the peaceful, rolling countryside he knew so well, towards the ancestral home of his chief enemy.

   To his surprise, the outer gates of the ancient hall stood open, and he clattered into the courtyard to be greeted by an elderly crook-backed man who claimed to be Viscount Malvern’s steward. There were no guards, just a rabble of grooms and serving-men armed with makeshift weapons.

   “I am Martin Bolton,” said Martin, tapping the badge on his chest displaying the sigil of the white hawk, “I have come to see Mistress Katherine. Take me to her, or fetch her out.”

   He tried to speak in a voice of command, as if the forty armed men at his back were not authority enough. The steward looked frightened, and threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.

   “Our mistress is not here, lord,” he said apologetically, “she was married to Edmund Ramage last month. They reside together at Buckleigh House.”

   Buckleigh was the seat of the Ramages, one of the smaller manor houses in the county, lacking the grandeur of Malvern Hall and Heydon Court. Edmund was an ambitious man, and forever scheming to lift his family a few rungs up the social ladder.

   He was also over fifty years old, and the thought of him married to Kate made Martin’s gorge rise. His aged body crawling all over her in the marital bed, his yellow fingers dabbling in her hot, private flesh…
Martin’s
flesh, his by right of betrothal and conquest.

   “Let’s set fire to this pigsty, lord,” suggested Hywel, the captain of his archers and men-at-arms. Hywel was a Welshman from the mountains of Gwynedd, and a gleefully merciless brute.

   Martin looked around. The fire-blackened walls of Malvern Hall still bore the scars of the last time a Bolton had come calling, when his brother Richard had gutted and ransacked the place and beheaded Sir Thomas Malvern in his own courtyard. God had punished Richard for that crime, along with others. Martin had no desire to fall foul of the same divine justice.

   “No,” he said firmly, turning his horse, “we ride to Buckleigh.”

   Ramage’s house lay some fifteen miles to the west, half-hidden inside a little wood on a ridge. The ridge overlooked a patchwork of fields, fallow at this time of year, bare and brown save for a few crows picking over the soil for grubs.

   A thin wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of Buckleigh House. It looked a peaceful place, snug in the heart of the English countryside, with a tiled roof and half-timbered upper storey. The house and its adjoining courtyard were enclosed by a stone wall and a small gatehouse.

   “We could get over the wall in no time,” said Hywel when Martin halted his men a good distance from the house, “don’t even need ropes or ladders. Shin up it, get inside, deal out merry hell to anyone who gets in our way.”

    “I don’t want any unnecessary bloodshed,” said Martin, “I want Kate back. That is all.”

   Hywel scratched his bristly cheek. “If her husband has any pride, you will have to fight for her. What sort of a man is he?”

   Martin couldn’t answer with any confidence. He remembered Edmund Ramage as a traitor, one of those who had sided with York at Blore Heath and conspired to slay his father on the field, but had no clear memory of his character or appearance.

   “If he fights, I will kill him,” he said stoutly, “he thinks he can rob me of my bride. No man steals from a Bolton and lives to profit from it.”

   He led his men at a canter over the desolate fields towards the gate. As they drew near, a steel helmet appeared on the parapet above the gateway, and a voice shouted a challenge.

   “Come no closer, Bolton,” warned the archer above the gate, “or I will shoot you down. The same goes for those hirelings behind you.”

   Martin reined in. “Belay your empty threats,” he shouted back, “and go inform your master that Martin Bolton is at the gate, and wants his bride back. Tell him he has but half an hour to hand her over. If he refuses, my men will storm his kennel and slaughter every dog inside.”

   The helmet disappeared. All was silence for a few minutes, broken by the jingle of harness and a few impatient voices among the men.

   Hywel growled at them to hush their noise. The murmurs died down, but Martin shifted uncomfortably, and wondered how long he could restrain their savagery.

   They were all experienced fighting men, used to making a living from war and plunder. If he did not find some work for their swords soon, they were like to ride off and find it for themselves.

   To his relief, there were raised voices from inside the house, and a smaller door set inside the gate swung open.

   A tall man in full armour stepped out. He was bareheaded, his helmet tucked in the crook of his left arm, and he carried a broadsword and a flanged mace.

   The watery October sun gleamed off his bald pate. This was Edmund Ramage, bald as an egg, hook-nosed and ugly, his gargoyle features creased into a contemptuous frown.

   Two of his archers followed him outside and took up position behind him. They looked nervous, understandably so considering the odds.

   Ramage appeared unconcerned. “The last of the Bolton brood,” he sneered, “come to rescue his beloved. Do you see yourself as Sir Lancelot, whelp? It is many years since I read the romances, but I cannot recall Lancelot riding to his lady’s aid with an army at his back.”

   The flat, careless contempt in his voice surprised Martin, who had expected Ramage to cower behind his walls. Still, he took heart. If this arrogant old man wanted a fight, he would get one.

   “Where is she?” he demanded, keeping his anger in check. He knew that he could not allow himself to be provoked: making your opponent angry, as Hodson used to say, was the first step to beating him. 

   “Who?” Ramage replied nonchalantly, “your bitch of a mother? I believe she is feeding the worms at Cromford graveyard. They will find little to fill their bellies, poor creatures. She was ever a skinny whore.”

   Martin forced a smile, though inside he was boiling.“Poor stuff, Edmund,” he said, sliding easily off his horse, “you are as much of a wit as you are a gentleman. Where is Kate?”   

   “Ah, you mean my wife. She is inside. A wilful creature, but I think I have broken her.”

   Martin drew his sword and unlooped a mace from his saddle-bow. He only wore a breastplate and light mail, but gambled on that giving him the advantages of speed and ease of movement.

   “Give her back to me,” he said, advancing slowly towards Ramage, “and I will spare your life.”

   A strange silence fell. Martin could hear nothing save the rushing of blood in his ears.

   Ramage’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was wondering if the younger man was in earnest. Martin did not have to fight a duel. He had the advantage of numbers, and could simply order his men to kill Ramage on the spot and storm the house.

   No. He wanted to fight this duel. He wanted to prove himself in Kate’s eyes, and hoped she was watching from some upstairs window.

   “Your late brother once murdered a friend of mine,” Ramage said slowly, “he invaded his house, butchered his servants and made his granddaughter watch him die.”

   “Richard was a hard man,” said Martin. He spoke distractedly, trying to weigh up his opponent. Ramage appeared in good shape for a man over fifty. He was all sinew and muscle, and carried not an ounce of fat. In common with most men, he was shorter than Martin, but otherwise gave up no physical advantage.

   “He was a coward, birthed by a whore. As for your father, shall I tell you how he begged and whimpered for his life at Blore Heath?”

   The last thread of Martin’s restraint snapped. Abandoning caution, he lunged at Ramage, aiming to drive his sword through the other man’s hateful smirk.

   Ramage had neglected to don his helmet. He let it drop now as he brought his sword up to counter Martin’s thrust. The two blades met with a slither and scrape of steel, echoed by a shout from the watching soldiers.

   “Have at him, lord!” Martin heard one voice shout, “cut his fucking balls off!”