‘Now, my dear, listen to me. Send your own letters to Earl Warwick, or to those lords who loved you and were most loyal. Tell them you will come in a ship with an honour guard of my best men, a hundred, no –
two
hundred to guard your safety so you will not bruise your foot on a loose stone. My authority will keep you and your son safe, my lady, until you are in London once more. Until that day, until you are ready, you are my guest still and you may remain for as long as you wish.’
Margaret felt his grip on her hands lessen and let his dry skin slip over hers. She looked up at the sunlight through the glass once again, reminded that his concern had been to break King Edward, who favoured a traitorous duke of Burgundy over a king of France. That had been the insult Louis had repaid a thousandfold, no other. Margaret’s fate, with that of her son and Lancaster, had been always a mere shadow of the rest.
She allowed her lips to part and breath to ease silently out. The king saw her acceptance and he smiled at her, unseen. Once Lancaster had settled itself and England was quiet, Louis knew he would be able to turn his hand and his power against the usurper in Burgundy, Charles le Téméraire.
Louis remembered a vase he had seen once. It had been a small thing, delicate in white and blue. It had been far too ugly for display, though it had been painted and fired in some impossibly distant realm of the east, where khans and satraps ruled. It had been secured with tiny bars of metal, a piece of pottery considered so valuable that it had been worth saving, even when shattered. Piece by piece, a master craftsman had put it back together, with glue and metal and months or years of his time. Louis nodded to himself. His reward would be greater: France unified under one crown, England a steady ally. He only wished his father could have lived to see him make so much of the pieces he had been given.
George, Duke of Clarence, opened his eyes in the darkness. He felt a cold line lying across his throat, and when a voice whispered in his ear he was consumed with such terror that he stiffened in the bed, arching up so that only his head and his heels still touched. Next to him, his wife, Isabel, slept restlessly, sprawled across the covers.
‘If you move, at all, I will cut your throat. They’ll find you staring at the ceiling in the morning.’
Clarence recovered slowly from his first shock, lowering back down so that he lay more normally. There was very little light from stars outside the window. There was no moon and the man in his bedchamber was just a blot, hunched over at his side. George breathed more shallowly when he smelled blood on the air, coming from the fellow. Blood and bracken. He felt fresh sweat break out all over him, forming beads.
‘Now, Your Grace, I was told to pass a message to you and I will do so, though I have a mind to cut you for
taking my ear
.’ Despite the need for caution, the Irishman’s voice grew louder as he spoke, as if he could barely keep his anger in check. In her sleep, Isabel murmured something and both men froze.
‘You don’t understand,’ Clarence whispered back. He began to turn his head, but froze as he felt the movement cause a sting and a trickle of warmth. ‘You don’t know Derry Brewer, the king’s spymaster. He has men everywhere, listening. I could not let you come to me with other men there to report every word to him.’
The pressure of the knife blade increased for a moment, almost as if the man wanted him to stay still while he thought. Clarence swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple move uncomfortably against the blade. Isabel groaned in her sleep, half turning without waking up, and he thought his heart would beat right out of his chest. Clarence could feel the softness of her breasts resting against his left arm. Ludicrously, with his life hanging in the balance, he could feel arousal stirring. It really could not have been a worse time.
‘God knows, I’d rather kill you,’ the Irish voice hissed, unaware of his burning embarrassment. ‘But I’ve been paid and I am a man of my word. Just sit still and listen.’ Silence fell once more until Clarence could hear his wife’s rhythmic breathing, not quite a snore but deep and burred in her throat.
‘Your brothers will come home, to roost. Soon, though they have not trusted me with the date. When they stand in England once again, they want you to remember that Warwick will never make you king. He has married his second girl to Edward of Lancaster and, by all accounts, he is a fine and fertile young man. You have tied your colours to the wrong horse.’
Clarence blinked hard in the darkness, pleased the stranger could not see him. His betrayal of his brothers had been from rage and loss – and yet he missed them still. Great passions were hard for him to keep aflame and always had been. His instinct was to forgive and let old pains drift away on the breeze. He heard Richard’s dry tone in the words the man had memorized, or perhaps Edward’s briskness. He yearned to be returned to their trust.
He thought again of the young woman sleeping at his side, Warwick’s oldest daughter. Clarence could say truthfully that he loved her, and she him. Yet would it remain so if he betrayed her father? Who could say if she would ever come willingly to his bed again? If he turned back to York, she might hate him with the same poisonous vigour she had previously reserved for Edward and his wife, Elizabeth. Clarence clenched his fists in the darkness. His marriage or his brothers. One side or the other.
‘What do they want me to do?’ he whispered.
‘Just to consider where your loyalty should lie. This is a passing season. It will all be settled in battle – and you know Edward of York will not lose on the field. Gather your men and be ready to march to our side. If you do, you will be pardoned and restored – or damned and destroyed if you do not. Now go with God, Brother. But come with us.’ The Irishman’s voice changed subtly as he came to the end of the passages he had committed to memory, becoming angry once more from the throbbing pain and sickness he felt from his injury. Clarence’s eyes had adjusted enough by then to see the man’s head was swathed in cloth, bulbous and misshapen in the darkness.
‘There is a pouch of coins on the dresser,’ Clarence said softly. ‘Take it in payment for your wound. I have heard you.’ There was a faint chink as the man found the silk bag with
questing fingers, though the knife against his skin did not move. It was odd how he could no longer feel the cold of it, Clarence thought. His skin had warmed the steel.
‘Will you send an answer?’ came the man’s voice. Clarence lay still, looking up at blackness.
‘What? Would they accept my word? They do not know my heart and they will not, no matter what I tell you tonight. I command three thousand men, sir. They are my word, when they move. Now, goodnight. You have disturbed my sleep for too long.’
For an instant, the pressure of the blade seemed to increase and Clarence flinched in the dark, taking a breath. Then it vanished and he heard a creak as the window casement was eased open and the shadow vanished through it once more. He turned then, to run a hopeful hand over his wife’s breasts until she grumbled something unintelligible and presented her back to him. After that, he lay in wakeful silence until it was time to rise for the day.
March opened in cold winds and miserable, gusting rain. The English Channel had been a grey hell for most of February. Storms had battered the coasts of France and England, beating at the merchant fleets so that they were forced to abandon trade and cluster in sheltered harbours, away from the open sea. French warships waited on the deepwater moorings of the Seine, miles from the ocean, ready to escort Margaret and her son to England once again. Further north and east, stung by gales, the ships of Burgundy rocked and groaned at anchor. There were hundreds of islands in the archipelago where they had been gathered. Over the winter months, dozens of ships had been towed in, one by one, hidden from view and the knowledge of man. There, on green and mildewed shores, Duke Charles had assembled an invasion force for the house of York.
The air was cold and the sunlight weak as silent regiments in mail and leather trudged aboard moored ships, all along the quays. A few of the officers wore falchion blades in tight leather wraps on their hips. The rest might take up pikes or billhooks, or even a few English pollaxes that had found their way into the canvas bundles. The weapons had gone on board in huge cloth rolls that were already stained with rust. The pitting was all on the surface then. By the time the weapons had rusted to weakness, the war would be settled.
Perhaps eight hundred men still waited in small groups to join their ships and sail to a land from which they knew they might not return. The mood was subdued at the prospect,
with all the clicks and rattles of men in battle array, checking their equipment with patting gauntlets, or swearing softly as they realized they had forgotten something vital.
Edward walked up a gangplank to his flagship, the
Mark Antony
, making the planking bend into a curve under his armoured weight. He cast a nervous glance at the water as he passed over it, knowing that if he fell in, there would be no rising once again from those depths. He reached for the polished wooden rail as he stepped into the waist of the warship, looking about him with stern interest. The
Mark Antony
was the personal property of the Burgundian admiral and well appointed in whitened oak and polished brass. Some thirty men had gathered on both fore- and aftcastles as well as the main deck. Others clung to the ropes like hanged thieves, craning to see the king of England who would send them into battle on a foreign shore. He heard one of the horses whinny below, sensing some rising note in the crew that made it kick its tiny stall.
Edward met the gaze of every man with deliberate confidence, looking around slowly so that they could all say he had looked them in the eye and they’d felt the strength of his will. Some of those weighing him up would be experienced mercenary soldiers of Flanders, come for the only work that paid so well. Edward knew there would be spies among them, sending word back to Duke Charles. That did not concern him. His aims and desires were completely in accord with those of the man who had financed the expedition: to spite France and recover England. He felt a surge of excitement as he understood the men were also confident. They would not fail him. All he needed was to set foot on an English coast and plant his flag. They would surely give him that.
His brother Richard came on board with a lighter step, making the planking bounce. The spirits of both York men
rose at the sight of ships tacking and manoeuvring out amongst the islands, testing the ballast and the cordage, already packed with men. Still more were heaving up anchors and spreading small sails ready to navigate the deep channels of Zeeland back to open sea.
‘Like an arrow from a bow, Brother,’ Richard said, making his voice carry. ‘Like a falcon from a great height, we’ll fall upon them.’ He was pleased to see his brother grin fiercely. Gone was Edward’s dull eye and great white belly. Four months of brutal training had made a hound of him again, restoring youth and vigour and speed. Edward moved lightly as the ship rocked in the swell. He reached out to draw Richard close, his smile widening as he spoke in a mutter the crew would not hear.
‘Will there be a fleet out there, ready for us, do you think?’ It was their great fear, that spies from home would have reported their preparations. If they sailed out into the Channel to find an English fleet waiting, the sun would set on their plans and their lives.
Richard clapped his brother on the shoulder, playing the part of two young men delighted by all they saw before them. At the same time, he spoke under his breath, leaning in.
‘They can’t expect us yet, Brother! It is not half a year since you left the coast of England, yet we are here, ready with ships and men. They cannot be ready for us. Nor can they know you have found your fighting spirit once again.’ He chuckled then. ‘And I never lost mine. I tell you, Edward …’
Richard of Gloucester broke off as Earl Rivers bounded up the gangplank, making it creak. Anthony Woodville had grown a dark beard that lay upon his armour like a spade so there was no telling where his chin ended. Richard repressed his irritation as the man greeted them and bowed. Rivers had inherited his father’s title in the struggle for power. The
queen’s brother had seen his main chance in King Edward and remained close ever since. Richard nodded to the man, though he had been enjoying the quiet conversation with his brother – an intimacy rare in Edward and treasured all the more because of it. With Lord Rivers standing idle at his shoulder, there would be no more privacy.
Instead, Richard turned to the rail to look out over the docks. His brother was a fine leader in war, only a fool would deny it. Yet in peace, Edward surrounded himself with thick-limbed knights and thick-headed barons, men who owed him their advancement and were willing to waste it in drink and hunts. Richard had little time for any of them – and the queen’s brutish brother least of all. Yet he smiled and inclined his head even as Anthony Woodville thrust his presence upon them, exclaiming on the rain and the cold.
‘Gentlemen,’ Edward said, suddenly. He still had the knack of making his voice travel, though he did not seem to shout. It boomed across them and even men on the next ship along stood still in their tasks and turned towards him.
He unsheathed a huge sword then, the priceless gift of Charles le Téméraire, resting the point of it on the wooden deck so that it dug in. Edward knelt and all the standing men sank down with him. Even those in the ropes bowed their heads and clasped hands through the rough ropes. Edward gripped the bared blade so that the polished cross of the hilt was held before him.
‘I ask Our Saviour, Our Lord Jesus Christ, to guide us on our voyage and keep us safe. I ask my patron saint and all the saints to give us the strength and the will and the honour to take back what has been taken from us. “
Placebo Domino in regione vivorum
” – “I will please the Lord in the land of the living”. In England, gentlemen, where I am king. On sea and
on land, I ask for your favour, Lord. God grant us peace when we are done. And strength until then. Amen.’
The final word was echoed by the men. On the ships already at sea and those still tied to the shore, every head had been bowed in common purpose, though very few had heard his words. Sixteen hundred men made the sign of the cross and rose to their feet with a great graunch and clatter of armour and weapons. Edward smiled, showing sharp teeth.
‘Now take me
home
, gentlemen! I would see my England once more.’ The ship’s crew raced about their tasks, heaving on ropes and directing clumsy soldiers when they needed them. The
Mark
Antony
seemed to shiver as the last ropes were cast off. The sails cracked taut in the breeze and the motion changed subtly, becoming a live vessel on the deep. Edward crossed himself once again. Leaving the coast of Flanders was not an ending but a fresh start. He could barely contain his desire to set foot on English soil once more, almost a physical pain he had denied for the months of banishment. Even more, he wanted men like Warwick to understand who he was at last and to be afraid. There was but one king of England. As his ship broke out in formation with three dozen more, the wind and their speed increased. The great prow plunged into the sea, coming up with a beard of green water and dropping down once again. Spray surged over Edward and he walked forward into it, delighted by the sting of cold and everything it meant.
‘Go on!’ he shouted, though whether it was to the men aloft or the gulls or the ship herself, no one could say. ‘Go
on
!’ He was coming home, to settle all his debts and to take his crown, even if it was spattered with blood.
‘The brave men of Parliament resist, my lord, because they think they can serve two masters.’
‘Well, we must show them they cannot!’ Warwick retorted. ‘And I am weary of being baulked by these little men. King
Henry
summoned this Parliament. They have all taken oaths of loyalty to him – and they witnessed the execution of the Earl of Worcester for treason. A lesson for all! Yet still they seem determined to block me and make themselves a mockery.’
Derry Brewer sighed, examining the bottom of a pewter mug and raising it to be refilled. He had not grown tired of the service and fawning courtiers at the Palace of Westminster. The addition of a fine pewter badge on his tunic and a word in a few of the right ears had earned him the appearance of respect. Servants bowed when he entered a room and ran when he asked for ale or wine or a steak and kidney pie. He found he enjoyed the ease of life under such conditions.
‘Richard, they are just men,’ he said. ‘Tutored men who know their Latin and their Greek, yes. Men who can figure a little if you give them a piece of chalk and a slate and you don’t need an answer that same morning. Yet they are not above manoeuvring for their own survival, if you understand me? They have homes and hearths, wives and mistresses and brats to feed. All of which can be taken away and given to others, if Edward of York comes back.’ He shrugged as Warwick looked in anger at him, refusing to apologize for what he knew was true. The men of Parliament were trying to walk an impossible line. If Edward returned they could still show him they had delayed and been loyal. If Lancaster continued to hold the throne, they would begin to scurry over one another for that favour instead.
Derry despised the lot of them, but then he always had, ever since the long-dead Speaker Tresham had set two dogs on an old friend. Dogs with tools and a brazier. Derry
expected no aid from such men – and nothing but frustration and obstruction. As a result, they could not disappoint him and he found it oddly refreshing. Warwick had not had the same revelation and struggled on.
‘I have half the houses in London filled with men, Derry, sleeping in every attic and basement, packed like cordwood in the taverns – and stealing the ale as soon as the owners are asleep, as I hear in some complaint and bill just about every day.’
‘So build a barracks to house them,’ Derry said with a shrug. ‘Outside the city a way, where they can’t bother the young women. Grant them a meadow where they can sweat and train.’ He saw the idea sink in as Warwick drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Warwick gasped as he finished the pint, shaking his head and raising the mug for another.
‘All right, perhaps I will. That is in London though. All the while, I have a fleet beating up and down the coast of France looking for their ships, enduring winter cold and rot and broken boards – and men who fall from the rigging and dash out their brains on the decks in high winds. Others who get some fever and die screaming. Yet they remain, out there, sweeping up and down, never knowing when York will be sighted.’
Warwick paused to press a knuckle against the joint of his nose and his eyes, breathing out in a sigh or a groan.
‘And all the time, as I bleed fortunes into the sea, the king’s Parliament, these grain sellers and lawyers from the shires and the towns and the cities, cannot even be relied upon to see the wind has changed! York has
gone
. Lancaster has returned after a decade of their poisonous rule. My brother John appears before me each morning to announce he has had no word of his title in Northumberland. The rents from half my old lands are still pouring into the coffers
of other men and when I bring it up, I am told to apply to the courts! Perhaps King Henry has been too gentle with those whitebeard lawyer bastards! It took three months just to attaint Edward of York, like his father before him. That cursed line! All I have managed for Clarence is to make him Lieutenant of Ireland, while his old titles lie in disuse or disputed. Must I spend the rest of my life in a courtroom? I tell you, the gift of Towton was that so many seats were empty after it. Edward had titles by the dozen to award his favourites and by so doing, to secure his support. Advise me, Derry! Would you send these Parliament men away, in King Henry’s name? They will mutter and argue until the trumpets are blown for the end of the world, I swear, while I have a dozen men owed favours – and no titles or estates to give them.’
‘The men of the Commons are just afraid of one great shadow falling across them again. We struck at Edward of York and the lucky whoreson slipped the blow and ran. Like King Arthur’s return, they are expecting him home in the summer. The whole blessed country is expecting him home.’ Derry took advantage of that moment of sad declaration to sink half of the pint he had been poured, smacking his lips appreciatively.
‘That is the heart of it,’ Warwick said softly. ‘And I am ready for him.’
Derry made a snorting sound into his beer, spattering bits of froth.
‘You cannot keep an army camped in London for the winter, my lord. Borrow more from the priories and build your barracks. That is my advice. The wheels of Parliament grind slowly. They’ll vote you the funds you have spent in the end, but you cannot run dry, not now.’
‘By God, I was the richest man in England, once!’
‘Yes, my lord, my old heart breaks for the reverses you have endured,’ Derry said, eyeing the gold rings on Warwick’s fingers. ‘I’m sure it is just malicious gossip, what I heard about you allowing your captains to take the merchant vessels of any other nation as their payment, all under the seal of King Henry. Some might call it piracy, my lord, but I am not one of those who leaps to accusations, or even cares particularly, as long as he does not have to hear complaints about it after. If you do not earn a fortune from your cut, then let it be as I say – speak to the moneylenders to tide you over this winter. You will be rich again, in a year or two, when they see the country thriving in peace. The one thing all those merchants hate, is war. Their cargoes and cogs stolen by ruthless pirates, armies eating all their food. No, son, peace is where the money is. War interrupts trade – and trade is our lifeblood. They say Henry the Fifth borrowed so much he almost broke London. If he hadn’t won and captured all sorts of wealth, well, perhaps we’d be speaking French, really,
really
badly, Mon-sewer.’