20
The Queen’s Gallants were a motley group, Baron Audley thought privately. Many of them had been raised from his own county of Cheshire, as well as Shropshire and the surrounding counties, brought out from villages in twos and threes and dozens. Some were mere hedge knights, with no badge or livery beyond the queen’s silver swan pinned to their breasts. Those men at least were trained for battle, poor and ill equipped as they were. The rest were farmhands and smiths, builders and butchers and squires. They had come from all walks of life, with only loyalty to the king and outrage at York in common.
Derry Brewer was the link between them all, Audley mused, watching the spymaster trotting his bony horse through the camp towards him. Brewer had been the man who’d ridden into villages and set up his recruiting post, calling for loyal men to defend the king and queen. With Wilfred Tanner, it had been Derry who rode out to isolated farms, accepting the indentures of sons and brothers and fathers, anyone who would make their mark and accept a silver badge in return. Audley’s task had been to turn boys and gentlemen squires into soldiers over the previous months. Some of them had been in his care for half a year or more, while the most recent recruits were still unsure which end of a pike they should hold. It made for chaos and as they’d come together over the previous few weeks, Audley had found Brewer to be a useful enough aide. It was just unfortunate that the man’s memories of large-scale battles were all personal, with little sense of the sweep of tactics in the field. Brewer had been a foot soldier as a young man, with no better view of a battle than the ranks afore and behind as he marched. Perhaps for that reason, Derry had refused a formal position in the Gallants, telling Audley that he had too many roles already and could not bear another. The baron smiled to recall the man’s cheek as Brewer reined in at his side.
‘They are shaping up well, my lord,’ Derry said, dismounting. ‘I have not seen so many since France. I was told the queen’s arms and mail have reached you. Are you satisfied?’
‘No. I will not be satisfied until I see Salisbury’s head on the ground,’ Audley replied. He was aware that many of the men were within earshot and raised his voice to reach them. ‘But they will stand, these Gallants. We have three times the number marching with Salisbury and he does not know what awaits him. I would stake my life on these men.’
Those who heard him grinned at the veteran commander with his white moustaches and beard, repeating his comments to those around them.
‘In truth, I would rather take these men against Ludlow – and York himself,’ Audley went on in a much lower voice. He raised a hand to forestall Derry’s objection before it could begin. ‘Yes, I understand it serves the cause to break Salisbury before he can join hands with York and Warwick. It is the merest common sense. Even so, I chafe. York is the true threat against my king. He is the man they would all see sitting on the throne instead of its rightful occupant. York is the heart of this rebel faction and I would see him punished and attainted. Indeed, I have waited four years to see it.’
With another commander, Derry might have clapped him on the shoulder, but Audley was a stiff old man, not given to display or intimacy of any kind. Instead, Derry bowed his head.
‘You will, my lord, I don’t doubt it. As soon as we have broken Salisbury, we can swing south and join the King’s Gallants. Before the year is out, we’ll pluck the thorn.’
‘That is rash, Master Brewer,’ Audley said, shaking his head in reproof. ‘This is no jaunt, no merry march through woodland. Salisbury’s men are long-trained and armed with good iron. If we did not outnumber them by so many, I would not be confident.’
‘But we do. And you are,’ Derry said, his eyes twinkling.
The older man grunted.
‘Yes, well. We’ll see. Salisbury can’t reach Ludlow without passing us. Yet the man is cunning, Brewer. I saw his work in the far north and he is no one’s fool. I make it a rule never to count the banners taken until the battle is over. That is all I have to say to you.’
While the two men talked, the vast army of Queen’s Gallants had formed up in its three main groups, captains and sergeants bullying them into place. To Audley’s eye, it was still ragged work, with too many individuals wandering out of position. Yet the vast force that formed on Blore Heath was at least confident and well fed, nine thousand strong young lads pledged to the queen herself. Their fervour had surprised Derry at first. The badge of her silver swan had begun merely as a device to separate the two armies, as a way of telling them apart. It was too hard to split large forces in the midst of a campaign, and war could call for fast movement and response. Yet the swan badges had been taken up with enthusiasm and pride. The young men of English villages and towns had enjoyed the idea of fighting for a beleaguered queen, taking up her cause as their own. Derry had been forced to deny hundreds asking to wear it, giving them the king’s antelope badge instead.
Twelve hundred of the Gallants carried good yew bows, each weapon matched to the owner’s height and worth half a year’s wage or more in silver. Derry might have wished for archers like Thomas Woodchurch, but he did not have them. Yet bowmen of lesser quality were to be found in every English hamlet, with archery butts hammered to pieces each Sunday. The Gallant archers could fill the sky with shafts when the time came, then again and again, as fast as a breath. Some seven thousand more wore mail and carried axes or iron maces: clubs to smash helmets and heavy blades to kill men once they were down. At the rear, eight hundred knights rode at stately pace. Derry had wanted three or four times that number, but warhorses were a fortune on the hoof and only wealthy men rode to battle. It had cost the king and queen huge sums to provide horses for the hedge knights – men with the skills who could not afford the accoutrements of war. Derry had last looked over the receipts a year before and he refused to do so again, while a torrent of silver still poured out of the royal treasury. Mail-shirts and helmets on their own were ruinously expensive. It made sweat break out on his skin even to think of the costs, but there could be no half-measures. York’s wealth was legendary and he would certainly not stint when it came to supplying his men.
Audley signalled to his servants and they brought his mounting step and his horse, a dark brown gelding that snorted and stamped. Derry was grateful the animal was considerably younger than its owner as he mounted his own, delighted once again to sit in the saddle of Retribution.
‘I have chosen this spot with care, Master Brewer,’ Audley called. ‘Blore Heath lies in Salisbury’s path to Ludlow. You see ahead there? Half a mile or so, that hill with its strip of oak trees and gorse? We will wait in the shadow of that great hedge and, when we come out, we will surround Salisbury’s three thousand and cut them to pieces.’
‘That sounds a little rash, my lord,’ Derry replied.
Audley raised his eyes to the pale autumn sky.
‘Even so. I have waited for this for a long time. The king’s honour has been tainted by traitors, forced to retreat to Kenilworth when all England is his. I am content to be his mace, Master Brewer, his instrument. God willing, we will stop them here.’ The baron dug in his heels, choosing to ride alongside the marching Gallants and be seen.
At Ludlow Castle, York stared over the battlements, looking north to where he hoped to glimpse Salisbury’s army marching in his support. To the west, he could hear the rushing River Teme, winding round the castle, with the village and bridge of Ludford crossing it to the south. He turned a full circle, breathing deeply of the damp air and trying to find peace. The castle had been in an uproar ever since the letters from Salisbury had come in. York grasped the stones hard enough to hurt as he considered the betrayal of his house and name. King Henry would have had no hand in it, he was certain of that. It could only be the French queen who sat rubbing silk threads and making them all dance. He had known she was his enemy ever since she had stolen the king and hidden him away in Kenilworth. That was an old, remembered rage, a move so rash that he could never have predicted it. It could only be her influence that gave weaker men the nerve to act against him. Attainder! The very word was a poison, a threat he must answer without mercy, no matter who had first begun the path. The cool breezes of evening helped his temper, but he would not hold back as he had done at St Albans. If the king fell into his hands once again, he told himself, his sword would speak for him, answering with a single blow all those who dared to threaten his name and his house. York could still feel the horror that had stolen upon him as his scribes had dug out their records and described the terrible reach of that single document, sealed by the king. The end of a royal line, the end of a king’s great-grandson, never mind the titles York would not be able to pass on.
That thought turned his mind to his extraordinary son, returned with Warwick two nights before. York had thought he might burst with pride when he saw the sheer size of the man Edward had become. None of his other sons had achieved such a height or breadth. The youngest of them was still cruelly twisted, though at seven, young Richard had at last learned to clench his lips tight over his shrieks. The contrast between the sons of York had never been more obvious and York had praised Edward at a feast, catching sight for an instant of Richard watching them both. He’d waved the scowling little boy away then, with such great matters to discuss. The house of York had never been stronger, to have such a warrior as the heir – at the moment when the peril was greatest.
York reached for a jug of Malmsey wine he had placed carefully on the stone battlements. He was drunk, he knew, yet for just one night it felt right to blur the edges of his worries, to let them drift away while he stood in the cold and sank cup after cup. It seemed the garrison of Calais had brought many good things home. Warwick too seemed to have hardened in his time away. Salisbury’s son had spent his time well, raiding foreign shipping in the Channel, ships from Spain and Lübeck, or any other nation whose captains dared to risk their vessels along that coast. In York’s estimation, Warwick had returned a leader, rather than simply one who had inherited a title through his marriage. No one who saw him now would ever question his right to command again.
‘And against us, mere swans and antelopes,’ York muttered. Warwick’s two thousand had glimpsed marching columns as they’d approached the lands around Ludlow. They had not been challenged, not with so many men, but the truth was that the country was in arms and York had no idea of the numbers that would stand against him. He thanked God he and Salisbury had gathered and trained so many in the years of peace. Once Salisbury arrived, they would have seven thousand soldiers, enough to stand against a host of the ‘Gallants’, made fools on romantic ideals and the queen’s favour.
As his drunkenness became sour, York wondered if Margaret would tie her husband to a horse and parade him while the men cheered. It grated that Kenilworth was a fortress, closed to spies and messengers alike. For all York knew, the king had recovered from his illness to the point where Henry could ride with banners. The thought was like a cold knife sliding between his ribs and he drank again, finishing the jug and feeling his senses swim. He could trust Salisbury and Warwick. He could trust his son and the Calais men he had brought to Ludlow. The rest of the country would see only that the king was threatened once again. The name of traitor would be hissed in York’s ears wherever he went, unless he fulfilled their darkest mutterings and took the throne himself.
He nodded, turning back to the north and peering out, lit only by the spinning stars above.
‘Come, old friend,’ he muttered, raising his cup to Salisbury and slurring. ‘Come to me and let me do what I should have done before. I will not turn aside this time.’
The king was weeping, tears making him blind as Margaret and two servants wrestled him into his armour. Margaret was already flushed and embarrassed by her husband’s reaction, though the men with her had tended Henry for years, at Windsor and Kenilworth. She was rougher than they were, tugging Henry’s limbs back and forth and pressing hinges closed one by one.
‘Leave us now,’ she said, brushing irritably at an errant lock of hair that curled across her face.
The two servants scurried out without a backwards glance, leaving the king and queen alone. Henry’s armour creaked as he sat back on his bed. Margaret knelt before him, raising her hand to touch his face as he blinked and stifled sobs like a child.
‘There will be no blood, Henry, I have
told
you,’ she said. In her frustration, she had to fight the urge to slap him. ‘You must ride out with your Gallants. You must be seen in your armour and with your banners flying. Somerset and Buckingham will command, with Earl Percy and Baron Egremont. I will be there at your side the entire time.’
‘I cannot,’ Henry mumbled, shaking his head. ‘You do not know what you ask.’
‘I ask only that you act like a king of England!’ Margaret snapped.
The words stung her husband, but the drowning was strongly upon him and his face fell slack, the spark of awareness sinking to blankness in his eyes. Margaret lost patience entirely then, shaking her husband hard so that his head lolled.
‘Be sharp, Henry! I have moved the entire country to bring you to this place. I have spun England around Kenilworth, like a stone on a string. I have bribed and promised and threatened dangerous men, but you must have the
will
in the end, or you will lose it all. And what will your son’s life be worth then? Not a candle in a gale, Henry. Not even that. Stand for me, now. Rise up and stand straight in your armour. Take up your sword.’
Henry did not move from the spot where he sat slumped, staring into nothingness. Margaret rose to her feet, looking down on him in anger and despair. Eight thousand men had pledged themselves to fight for the king. Six thousand of them were soldiers brought in by his lords. They had all come, from Somerset and Northumberland to a dozen minor lords like John Clifford, made baron after his father’s death at St Albans. Yet a quarter of the king’s army were raw recruits from the towns and villages, no more experienced than her own Gallants. Simply by being present, Margaret knew Henry would give iron to their backbones, would make them stand when the cannons fired and arrows flew and their bowels dissolved in terror. She had clung to the hope that putting Henry in his armour would enliven him, no matter what stage of his illness had him in its grip. The king’s doctors had talked of rousing potions hidden in brandy that would excite the blood and drag him back from wherever he hid. She had hoped not to use them, but perhaps there was no other choice.