Margaret of Anjou (14 page)

He retired late, knowing he would feel it the following morning, as the Royal Progress moved on to St. Albans. He would pause and pray in the abbey there, at the oldest Christian shrine in the country. He had been told Abbot Whethamstede had been one of those who came to Windsor to poke and prod him while he had been senseless. It gave Henry some small pleasure to consider greeting the abbot on his feet, a man who had known him only on his back. Before he slept, he imagined taking the abbot’s hand in a strong grip and seeing him kneel to the King of England and his most loyal lords.

—

A
FTER THE
KING
and most of his guests had retired to their beds, Earl Percy remained, with his son Thomas and the younger Tudor still at table. It was oddly difficult to find a private place for a quiet conversation and the earl hoped the king’s Welsh half brother would leave. Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, was dulled with drink, but in that state where an hour can pass almost unnoticed. Earl Percy had to stifle yawns every few moments, too aware that at sixty-three he could not rise restored after just a few hours of sleep. He toyed with his cup of wine at the long table, watching the earl throwing grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth. The young Welshman was tilting his head up to the point where he was in some danger of falling back off his chair.

“I knew your mother well, Pembroke,” Earl Percy said suddenly. “She was a great lady and a fine wife to old King Henry. I was her steward at her coronation, did you know that?”

Jasper Tudor righted his chair with elaborate care before replying. “I did, my lord. Though I was just a child when she passed. I cannot say I knew her, though I wish I could.”

Earl Percy grunted.

“Your father, though, I don’t know him at all. A Welsh soldier is all I ever heard of Owen Tudor, though he married a queen and has two earls for his sons! Rising like bread, in just a generation.”

Jasper Tudor was short, with thick black curls that he had allowed to grow long. The Welshman sat straighter as Earl Percy addressed him, sensing something hostile in the old man’s talk, so that he played with his knife, scoring the wood.

“He lives still, a fine man,” he said, closing one eye as he squinted up the table.

“And a lucky one, for a Welshman,” Earl Percy said, emptying his cup. “Now here you are, his son, in the presence of the King of England and his court.”

“My brother called and I came, to represent my branch,” Jasper replied warily. “And I brought a hundred of those Welsh archers that have made such a place for themselves in England these last years.” He held up a hand as if to forestall an interruption. “Please, my lord, no thanks are necessary. Though I see too few bowmen in this grand Progress. I know my lads will make their mark if they are called upon.”

“I just hope you have them on a tight rein,” Earl Percy said lightly, staring up at the rafters. “I have known some men of Wales to be little more than savages. It is a dark country and there are some shameless fellows who call them thieves, though I would never count myself among that number.”

“I am relieved to hear that, my lord,” Jasper said. For those who knew him, his voice had grown dangerously soft, a murmur before a storm. “We say the same thing about the English in the north.”

“Well, you would, wouldn’t you?” Earl Percy said. “Still, I am glad to have such as you close to the king. Who knows what baubles might yet drop into your hands from his? There is no meanness in this King Henry. It has long been a generous line.”

Jasper Tudor rose suddenly, swaying as he glared blearily down the length of the table.

“I think I’ve had enough for one sitting. I will find my bed. Good night, my lord Northumberland, Baron Egremont.” He stumbled out of the room to the stairs, where he could be heard crashing about for some time.

Earl Percy smiled to himself, looking over to his son, almost as stupefied by drink as the young Welshman.

“I hope the servants count the spoons tomorrow,” he said. “The Welsh are like jackdaws, you know, every one of them.”

Thomas smiled at that, his eyes half closed and his head drooping.

“You should seek out your own bed, Thomas. This whole procession is too much like a spring fair. You young men should be sharp, with Nevilles armed for war. Do you understand? God, lad, how much have you drunk tonight?”

“I understand,” Thomas complained without opening his eyes.

“I wonder. I do not trust a Neville when I can see him, never mind when he is off somewhere else, doing God knows what. Go on, sleep it off and rise sharp to protect your king—and your father. Good night. Trunning will be up at dawn, I guarantee you that. I’ll have him throw a bucket over you if you sleep in. Go. God be with you.”

With a groan, Thomas rose to his feet, gripping the table to steady himself.

“G’night,” he said, staggering as he left the table’s support behind.

Alone, Earl Percy used his knife to cut slivers of cheese from a square wooden platter. With no one left to observe him, his features settled into their habitual frown. The king’s Great Progress had started well enough, but he could not enjoy Henry’s return to health while Salisbury and his sons were out there in the wilds with York. The king’s recovery had been the answer to prayers for the Percy family. The Nevilles had lost the foundations of their strength, but Earl Percy knew they would be all the more dangerous for that. With a grimace, he forced himself to drink another cup of wine, feeling his senses swim. Without it, sleep would never come.

T
here were more than a few sore heads and white faces in the king’s column the next morning. The day dawned clear and cold and the mood was light across the great camp. Half of those present were mounted, so that horses whinnied and snorted in huge herds, tossing their heads at the first touch of jingling bridle and reins. Senior judges who had found no place to sleep in town rose stiffly from their tents, yawning and scratching under their robes as they were tended by their servants.

Each of the lords traveling with King Henry had chosen their own spot around the town of Watford, marked by the banners of their houses, so that hundreds of brightly colored pennants fluttered in the morning breeze. Such a seemingly chaotic assembly was well ordered by name, status, and loyalties, in family groups. The cooking fires made a fog that hung over the fields like a cloud bank drifting down. By eight o’clock, they had packed up the baggage train and saddled the mounts. The Percy ranks were closest to the line of march, more than six hundred knights and axemen, by far the largest single contingent. No one challenged the earl’s right to lead. Both Somerset and Buckingham outranked him, but they had barely two hundred veteran soldiers between them, a massive force and investment that was nonetheless lost in the king’s host. Other noblemen jostled for position, with the places closest to the king often gambled at dice, or sold. The column took form and scouts swept out ahead, searching the land all around for any threat, their movements made visible by the rooks and crows they startled from distant trees.

King Henry had donned a full set of armor in the manor house, rising before the sun and visiting a local chapel. He shone as he rode along the flank of the column, his great destrier cantering easily. The helmet he wore had a barbed golden circlet set into the brow, as much a part of the steel as royalty was part of the man. He came surrounded by knights and heralds holding three-lion banners as he guided his horse onto the great slabs of stone that made up the road north.

Henry felt alert and vital, lifted by the sight of so many craning to watch him pass. They cheered the sight of the king, the sound drawn out of them by a sudden rush of pride and pleasure. It was unplanned and discordant, but it delighted Henry for all that. He reached the head of the column and took his spot behind the first three ranks, where Lords Percy and Buckingham rode.

“God’s blessing on you all,” Henry said.

Both men smiled and dipped as low as they could in the saddle, sensing the king’s mood and feeling it lift all those around them.

Henry settled, touching various spots on his armor and saddlebags as he took note of his equipment. In truth, it was just a show, his mind subtly distracted as he patted his horse’s great neck and rubbed at its ears. He did not yet trust his recovery and it had become his habit to take any private moment to breathe long and slowly, testing his joints and his mind, searching for broken parts. There were certainly aches in his bones and muscles, still weak after so long abed. Yet his thoughts were clear as he took a good grip on the reins. He was satisfied. He looked back along the column, seeing the eyes of waiting soldiers on him as his gaze swept over them. For many, it would be a moment to tell their children, when the King of England had looked directly at them and smiled. Henry nodded to them all, then turned back to look ahead. The sun was up and he was ready. He only wished Margaret could have been there to see him whole.

“My lords, gentlemen,” he said loudly. “Onward.”

The lines of knights and axemen moved off in step, the rank too wide for the Roman road so that it stretched and plunged over fields on both sides. It was an idle thought, but Henry knew his father would have ridden with as many when he broke the French at Agincourt. His heart swelled at that image of a man he had never known, feeling closer to him at that moment than he ever had before. He closed his eyes, trying to sense his father’s spirit. The battle king would surely see his son, if he could. It may have been a mere Judicial Progress, with judges, scribes, and pinch-faced lawyers at the rear, but it was also an army in the field and Henry felt the joy and rightness of it.

Without the pressure of advancing through hostile territory, the men in ranks called and chatted to each other as they marched or rode, carrying on conversations as varied as any group of washerwomen. The first six miles passed under the rising sun, lending a spring warmth to a day that remained clear.

Behind the wall of Percy knights, King Henry was not immediately aware of the scout racing back toward the column, waving his free arm as he forced his mount over broken ground and risked both their necks. The man was one of Henry’s own household, so that he ignored the questions called out by other men, shoving angrily through them as they clutched at his jerkin and cloak. Earl Percy exchanged a glance with his son and both he and Egremont reined in and halted to let the marching ranks pass them, drifting back to the royal presence.

“Squire James! Come closer,” Henry called as he recognized the young man. He beckoned him in and the scout bowed low in the saddle, taking gulping breaths before he could speak.

“Your Highness, there is an army by St. Albans. I saw the white rose of York, the eagle of Salisbury, and Warwick’s bear and white staff on red. They are camped to the east of the town and I could see no sign of them within the streets themselves.”

Earl Percy had brought his horse close enough to hear every word, the old man seeming to swell with indignation on behalf of his king.

“May I question him, Your Highness?” Percy said, dipping his head.

Henry nodded, willing to let the men speak while he thought.

“How many?” Earl Percy barked at the scout. “What numbers do they have? You’ve shown your eye is keen enough.”

“They were hard-packed, my lord. Standing close, like reeds. I would say more than we have here, but I cannot be certain, for a column stretches and they merely stood.”

“In what formation?” Percy snapped at him.

The young man began to stammer, aware that his words could mean they rode to battle. He was barely sixteen years old and he did not have the experience to answer well.

“I . . . no, my lord . . . I . . .”

“Spit it out, boy! Have they come to fight or not? Did you see pikes held ready or still stacked to the sky, ready to be snatched up? Were the horses saddled? Were there fires lit, or damped down?”

As the young scout opened his mouth, Thomas, Lord Egremont, added his own questions.

“Where was the baggage? Sent to the rear? Which of the noble banners lay closest to the town?”

“I . . . believe they did have pikes to hand, my lords. I do not recall fires, or whether the horses were all saddled. No, wait, yes I saw some knights at the fore who were armored and in stirrups. Not all, my lords.”

“Enough, my lord Percy, Thomas,” King Henry said to father and son. “Let the boy alone. We will see soon enough. What is it now—two, three miles to the town? We’ll know it all in an hour or so.”

Earl Percy scowled at the king’s response, smoothing his face with his hand before he answered.

“Your Highness, we should halt and consider our own formation. If we are to ride to battle, I would place the men in a wider line, with horse on each flank. I’d bring Tudor’s Welsh archers up to the front and—”

“I said
enough
,” Henry interrupted. His voice was firm and clear, silencing the earl as if he had been struck. Henry could feel the ears twitching of every man around him and he drummed his fingers on his saddle horn.

“If the rose, the eagle, and the bear are in the field for war, my lord Percy, be certain I will not disappoint them. There’s time enough to array for battle when we can see what lies ahead. I won’t have our horses blown to exhaustion in the mud while there is a fine road into the town ahead of us.”

His gaze fell on the scout, who was watching and listening with his mouth hanging open like a village idiot.

“Pass the word down the line, Squire James. Let the men know what we are about, what we may face this morning. And find Derry Brewer, wherever he is skulking. I’ll want to know his thoughts. Bring him up to me and then take those sharp eyes of yours out once again. You have my thanks and my blessing for your service.”

The scout went scarlet with mingling pleasure and embarrassment, almost falling out of the saddle as he bowed for his king. Not trusting himself to speak, he took his horse out of the column and dug in his heels, galloping away to the rear.

—

R
ICHARD OF
Y
ORK RODE ALONG
the edge of a plowed field, avoiding the deep-laid furrows as he surveyed the town with its abbey tower visible over all. On his right shoulder, three thousand men filled Key Field from one side to the other, waiting for orders. He looked over their heads as he cantered along the town’s eastern boundary, keeping his worries hidden as best he could. He did not yet know what the day would bring, whether his fortunes would be restored or utterly broken. Salisbury and Warwick had fallen back a way as he increased his pace, though his son Edward remained at his side, looking to his father in uncomplicated joy, just to be present. The four of them rode along the rear walls of timber-framed houses, glimpsing staring faces at the open windows.

It was galling to York that neither Salisbury nor Warwick seemed to share his concerns. The king was coming north with a large body of men. York knew it was the most dangerous provocation just to assemble an army in Henry’s path. Yet he’d been forced to accept Salisbury’s advice, given over and over during the previous months. They could not approach the king without an armed presence. York had his own spies in Westminster and, to a man, they reported only growing hostility to his name and cause. Salisbury’s informers had claimed even more—that men like the Duke of Somerset and the queen were arguing openly for his destruction. He shook his head like a twitch. If he and the Nevilles rode in alone, they could be captured and brought to trial on the spot. The king had his judges and his Seal with him, as well as peers of the realm. He needed nothing else.

York fretted as he halted his horse, looking over the entrances to the town from the east. Three paths lay ahead, as clear as the three entrances to St. Albans. One choice was already made, as he had decided not to remain at Ludlow with his head down. York had been the king’s lieutenant in France and Ireland and he could not sit back and wait for his fate to be decided by others. He knew if he had taken that coward’s course, the king would have reached Leicester in peace—and would have immediately named York and Salisbury as traitors. Salisbury’s men in particular had been certain of that. Whatever else, York could not allow that declaration to be made.

York removed his gauntlet, laying it over the saddle horn as he wiped sweat from his face, looking south to the stone road stretching away across the hills. He had the forces to attack, a choice with no certain outcome, a choice that would mean he was indeed a traitor to the Crown. He would be oathsworn and damned in front of his eldest son, a thought that sickened him. Such an act would raise the country in righteous rage against a kingslayer. He would never know peace again and he would not sleep for fear of men sent to kill him in the night. York shuddered, rolling his shoulders in the armor. Such men existed, he knew very well. Two centuries before, King Edward I had been cut by some dark-skinned maniac, fighting him off with a chair in his own rooms. That was no kind of fate to choose.

He could not run and he dared not fight. The choice he had made was the weakest of them all, though perhaps a fraction less likely to end in complete disaster. York turned his horse to face Salisbury and Warwick, meeting the older man’s eyes as they bored into him, watching and judging his every change of expression.

“When the king arrives,” York said, “there will be no sudden movement among our people, is that understood? My orders are to stand, to hold. The royal ranks will come with hackles raised at the sight of so many arrayed against them. One fool then among us—just
one
calling an insult at the wrong time—and all we have planned and prayed for will fall apart.”

Though there were four of them, the conversation was between the two fathers in that group. York and Salisbury faced each other on the dark earth, while their sons looked on and said nothing.

“I have agreed all that, Richard,” Salisbury replied. “You want your chance to lance the boil. I understand. My men will obey me well enough, you have my word. Send your herald to the king, make the demands we discussed. I think the words will not reach Henry, or if they do, that he will not listen, but I’ve made my objections before. It’s your tune to play, Richard. My men won’t start a fight unless they are attacked. I can’t answer for the peace then.”

York screwed his face up on one side, reaching up to scratch and rub the roughened skin. He was very aware of his son listening to every word and, for the first time, wished he had not brought him from Ludlow. Edward’s height and breadth made him look like a young knight, especially with his visor down. Yet he was thirteen. The boy still believed his father could not be in the wrong, while York saw only closed paths ahead. Irritated with himself, York swallowed spit and replaced his gauntlet, tugging at it until his fingers reached the end, then clenching the hand into a fist until it shook.