Revenge (12 page)

“No, lord,” Richard replied. “Until I came to France, I had rarely left my native Staffordshire.”

Somerset shrugged. “No matter. You found your way here well enough. Indeed, you came of your own free will to take up in arms in a losing cause, and were not afraid to break lances with Sir Andrew. Impressive.”

Richard might have said that he had come to France because he was wanted for murder and robbery in England, and that his joust with Trollope was a ghastly mistake fuelled by drink, but thought better of it.

“You and your esquire will go back across the sea,” Somerset went on, “and take certain letters to the Earl at Exeter, or wherever he is residing. The task is not without risks. Warwick’s ships will be patrolling the Channel from Calais and Sandwich, and the Earl has enemies in Devonshire. Even so, you will make the attempt. This is no time for caution or faint hearts.”

“Yes, lord,” said Richard, knowing he could not say otherwise. He was a mere pawn in the power of his betters, and must do as they bade him.

Somerset nodded, and they turned to discussing the details of Richard’s mission.

12.

Sir John Stanley, High Sheriff of Staffordshire, sat in a private chamber of his house in Stafford and picked at the remains of his dinner. He was entertaining a guest, Sir John Huntley. Both men had eaten and drank well, rather too well in Huntley’s case.

They made for a striking contrast. Stanley was the younger man, in his late thirties, tall and spare and severe in appearance. Huntley was fifty-three, though of late he had aged considerably and taken to seeking refuge from the times in drink. As a consequence, and the creeping gout that prevented him riding to the chase as much as he had liked, he was heavy, swollen and purple of countenance. His face was a mass of sorrows sketched in wrinkles and broken veins.

Huntley had spent much of the previous half-hour trying to persuade Stanley to support his feud against the Boltons. The vehemence of his arguments, along with the loudness of his voice, grew as he continued to punish Stanley’s wine.

“Did you know Kate Malvern came to my house after Malvern Hall was sacked?” he cried. “Just six years old, and she made her way alone and on foot, fifteen miles in the dark. One of my foresters found her wandering in a little wood. She was half-dead from cold.”

Huntley jabbed his finger at the Sheriff. “The Boltons must be dealt with,” he growled. “It is your duty to punish them.”

Stanley toyed with his cup. He was a composed, quietly-spoken man, who liked to conceal his emotions under an urbane exterior. The gross and uncouth Huntley was scraping on his nerves.

“Kate Malvern,” he mused. “I had forgotten about her. An oversight. I must send word to her uncle at Hereford. She will be his ward now.”

“What about the Boltons?” Huntley demanded. “How do you intend to punish them?”

Stanley masked his irritation with an effort. “I have given the matter much thought,” he said, “and if you choose to make war on that family on your own account, I will not hinder you. Rather, I shall assist in any way I can – tacitly, of course – and furnish you with the necessary arms and supplies.”

Huntley’s deep-sunk eyes glittered as he digested the Sheriff’s extraordinary offer. “You seek to use me as an instrument of justice,” he said in his breathy, ruined voice, “but there are still risks. Not two miles from here, the Duke of Buckingham’s widow sits in Stafford Castle and broods over the death of her husband. The Boltons are firm Lancastrians. She will be inclined to take their side in any dispute.”

Stanley waved that away. “You forget, many of my own kinsmen are for York,” he replied. “This affair has naught to do with York and Lancaster. My task is to keep the peace. Richard Bolton and Henry of Sedgley are outlaws, wanted for murder, larceny, assault, and sundry other crimes.”

Huntley mopped his glistening chops with his stained handkerchief. He was forever sweating, though it never seemed to lessen his near-crippling burden of fat.

“Don’t forget Bolton’s servant, Nicholas Mauley,” he said. “That one-eyed devil dared to take his knife to my boy. I will see him torn apart by dogs.”

“No. You will see him brought to justice, and maybe hanged,” Stanley corrected him. “The rest of England may be sliding into feud and lawlessness, but it will not happen here. Not while I am Sheriff.”

Huntley studied the Sheriff carefully for a moment, and drummed his swollen fingers on the table. “How do you mean to bring any of them to justice, then?” he said. “All three have fled the county, and maybe gone beyond seas for all we know. Why do you offer to help me bring the rest of the family down?”

“Dame Anne Bolton paid me fifty pounds to leave Heydon Court alone,” replied Stanley, gently dabbing a piece of wheaten bread into his supper, a dish of trout in sweet and sour onion sauce, and popping it into his mouth, “on condition that she made every effort to apprehend her eldest son, or provide me with information on his whereabouts. She did neither.”

Huntley’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “So she bribed you, and then failed to live up to her end of the bargain. You always were proud, Stanley.”

Stanley’s narrow face was expressionless as he chewed his bread. “You may draw whatever conclusions you wish,” he said.

“I already have,” replied Huntley, shifting his bulk uncomfortably in a chair too small to contain it, “and my main conclusion is that I would not like to be your enemy. So you will supply me with arms, money and men to seize Heydon Court?”

“Yes. I would do it myself, but I prefer to maintain good relations with Buckingham’s widow. She is fast friends with Dame Anne. Pursuing Richard Bolton for his crimes is one matter, but a direct assault on Heydon Court quite another.”

“I never was one for politics,” said Huntley. “It is a dirty business, a playground of thieves and liars.”

Stanley fixed the other man with his pale blue eyes. “Guard your tongue, Sir John, “he said coldly. “I can easily find another to perform this task. Your friend, Edmund Ramage, for one.”

“Edmund doesn’t hate the Boltons like I do.”

“The prospect of acquiring all their lands and manors, not just Longton, might stir up a little hatred in him. As soon as Heydon Court and the other houses are seized and garrisoned by my officers, I have a mind to send to the Earl of Warwick in London, requesting permission to bestow them on whom I please.”

“Warwick?” Huntley’s ravaged features creased into a hideous frown. “Does he hold the reins of government now? What of the King? What of York?”

“Come, Huntley, I thought you had a firmer grasp on affairs than that,” said Stanley. “The King is Warwick’s prisoner, and rumoured to have slipped back into his old madness. York is still in Ireland. That leaves Warwick as the only real power in the land.”

He pushed aside his plate and laced his fingers together. “As to what is required for this enterprise,” he went on, “Heydon Court is defended by no more than four or five men-at-arms and a rabble of grooms and serving-men. However, I am informed that Dame Anne recently equipped the house for a siege. She has stuffed it with crossbows, handguns, pole-arms, jacks and sallets, and had shooting-holes bored into the walls. Heydon Court is turned into a miniature fortress.”

“Wily old bitch,” Huntley grunted. “She must have been plotting with her son for months. Ever since Blore Heath, I’ll warrant. They mean to make us all suffer for Edward Bolton’s death.”

“Possibly,” Stanley said indifferently. “Their motives do not concern me. What does is how to prise them out of Heydon Court. Would eighty men and two pieces of artillery suffice?”

Huntley grinned fatly and ran a hand through his matted red beard.

“More than sufficient, my lord Sheriff,” he replied – the first time he had addressed Stanley by his title. “The Ramages and I can add another thirty or forty men to that number. What do you plan to do with Dame Anne and her brood once I deliver them?”

Stanley looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Because I have a request. Let my son be married to Mary Bolton, as was the agreement before she spat on us and offered her hand to the Bastard Stafford.”

“You are asking me to sanction bigamy. Her husband, so far as I know, is still alive.”

“My boy is impatient for the union to be sealed. I grant it is bigamous, but such things have been overlooked before. If it’s a question of money…”

He let the sentence hang and gave Stanley a knowing look.

“Oh, very well,” the Sheriff said with a sigh that masked his greed, “but I hope you have deep coffers. The Church will demand more money to overlook this affair. I’m at a loss to know why your son is so keen to marry a woman you plan to shame and disinherit.”

Huntley shrugged his massive shoulders. “Not for love, you can be sure of that. He looks to settle old scores.”

They fell silent and eyeballed each other like a couple of wary old cats.

“I wish you good hunting,” Stanley said at last, reaching for the wine jug.

He poured out two generous measures, and the two men cracked cups and drank to a mutually profitable enterprise.

13.

The terrible news of the King’s defeat and capture at Northampton reached Heydon Court shortly after Mary’s return, loading yet more care and sorrow onto her mother’s shoulders.

At the time Mary wondered at how her mother could bear it all without running mad. Much later, when she endured her own trials, Mary came to appreciate how much a woman can endure, so long as she puts her trust in God and is content to wait for fortune’s wheel to turn again.

“We will be sorely pressed,” Dame Anne said to her, “for now Warwick is in power, our Yorkist neighbours shall be restored to favour and office. There shall be none to protect us from their anger.”

They were talking in her bedchamber, where she was wont to summon Mary to speak of private matters. It was August, and the slow dying of the summer seemed to reflect their family’s declining fortunes.

Mary tried to reassure her. “They have no leader,” she said. “Old Malvern is dead. Without him, our enemies are like sheep deprived of a shepherd.”

“You are wrong,” replied Dame Anne, shaking her head. “I have it from James, who knows all that passes in this county, that Huntley’s father has taken his place.”

Mary laughed. “You do not fear him, surely? That swollen, wine-drenched sack of guts has not taken the field in over twenty years, and grown so fat none but the strongest horses can carry his weight.”

“Nevertheless, his hatred of us has driven him to squeeze his bloated body into harness again. His son survived Mauley’s knife, but is said to be horribly disfigured. Father and son have sworn a vow on a casket of holy bones to have their revenge us.”

Mary continued to scoff, though inwardly she was much disturbed. Two days later, Tanner returned from Stafford with news that the Huntleys were in league with the Sheriff and raising a power to march on Heydon Court.

That same evening they received an unexpected guest. After supper Dame Anne, Mary and Tanner gathered in the hall to plan the defence of the house. The door opened and Ralph Hodson entered, muttering his apologies for disturbing them.

Hodson had taken over as captain of their tiny garrison after the departure of Mauley. He was stout and greying, like an old badger, and beginning to spread around the middle, but he was a steady man.

“Your pardon,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands, “but a man is at the gate and begs leave to enter. My lady” – he looked direct at Mary – “he claims to be your husband. I believe he speaks the truth.”

Mary would have hurried outside, but Dame Anne gestured at her to remain seated.

“You and Piers bring him in,” her mother ordered Hodson, “but search him for weapons, and watch him closely. Is he alone?”

“He is, lady,” Hodson replied, and went out to do Dame Anne’s bidding. Mary waited, chewing her lip and staring into the fire. She suddenly felt cold and nauseous, and barely felt the touch of her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

Hodson and Piers came into the hall, ushering a ragged scarecrow ahead of them.

Henry was a great deal thinner than Mary remembered him, and the proud harness that he had ridden off to Lichfield in was replaced by soiled and stinking rags. But he was still her husband. She would have risen to embrace him, but her mother stepped between them.

“Henry,” she said, folding her arms and gazing at him severely, “you left Heydon Court armed and caparisoned like a knight, and return thus, in the garb of a beggar. What happened to you?”

She stared at him, that old piercing stare that had haunted Mary’s childhood, burning away layers of petty sin and deceit.

“Madam,” he croaked, his voice a dry husk of its former hearty tone, “I am what any man would be, after so many days of hiding in ditches and hedgerows and hay-stacks, begging a little bread and cheese to stay alive and stealing what I could not get. My harness is gone, resting at the bottom of a river by Northampton, and my sword broken off in a Yorkist’s belly. As for my horse, God knows. Some Yorkist knight probably took her.”

Henry spoke with a calm dignity that was surprising, for he had ever been nervous and tongue-tied in Dame Anne’s presence. He was a different man altogether. The overgrown boy he had been was gone, replaced by something far less charming and more formidable.

“You were at the fight at Northampton?” asked Tanner, seeing his mistress lost for words. Henry gave him a withering look.

“No, man, I’ve been in a pot-house brawl,” he said drily. “Of course I was at the battle, but don’t ask me for an account of it. I came here to ask for shelter and something to eat, before going on to Sedgley to see my wife. But I see she is here, and my poor bleeding feet are spared another journey.”

“I am here because Sedgley has been seized by the Sheriff,” said Mary, fighting to keep her voice steady. “We have lost our home, my husband, and you have lost the only manor in your possession.”

She rose, torn between anger and relief, brushing her mother aside. Mary had rehearsed this conversation in her mind many times in the past weeks, and imagined what excuses Henry would make. The new man standing before her was not one to seek refuge in excuses.

“I am waiting for you to say, at least I have not lost my life,” he said bitterly. “There are hundreds of women in England, Mary, who would give much to be able to say that. Think on the Lady Anne at Stafford Castle, wearing black for her noble husband and shivering for the fate of her son. Or the widow of some dead retainer, her husband drowned in the Nene, cast out on the road with no-one to protect her.”

He stopped. A shadow seemed to pass across his face, and he swayed dangerously. “Bear him up!” Mary cried, and the men hurried to take his arms before he collapsed.

They took Henry to bed, for he was done in. When he was safely asleep Mary ordered him to be stripped and his filthy clothes taken away and burned. Then she sat alone with him awhile, holding his hand and studying his face by candlelight.

Her husband was bearded and hollow-cheeked, his brows drawn together in a frown that failed to soften even in sleep. The dark smudges under his eyes testified to recent suffering, though he had taken no wound save a livid black bruise on the left side of his chest, just under the collar-bone.

He slept restlessly, afflicted by nightmares that made him shift and murmur in his sleep. Mary stayed with him until sunrise, by which time her eyes were so heavy she lay down next to him. Dame Anne shook them both awake at noon, insisting that Henry go downstairs and get some food inside him.

Mother and daughter watched pensively as he sat at the table and wolfed down several bowls of meat broth, with bread and cheese. Henry smiled at their anxious expressions.

“Be of good cheer,” he said. “I am not dead, though perhaps in danger of bursting if you continue to stuff me like a pig in summer. I apologise for my harsh words last night. I was tired, and meant no offence. Least of all to you, my love.”

Mary reckoned he owed a fuller apology than that, but held her tongue. As he said the previous night, he had survived the battle and come home virtually unscathed. For that she should be grateful. Many others had not been so fortunate.

“There is still the matter of the law,” said her mother. “You are a wanted man in this county. Where are Richard and Mauley?”

Henry’s good humour faded. “I don’t know,” he replied, scraping up the last of the broth. “We parted ways at Tamworth. They planned to go to France, while I went to join the royal army mustering at Coventry.”

“France,” Dame Anne echoed, and made the sign of the cross. “God grant that he is there now, safe and well. Better a life in exile than no life at all.”
     “You are still in danger, Henry,” said Mary. “The Sheriff is hot for your blood. We hear that he has formed a pact with the Huntleys. God knows what mischief they are plotting together, but your life would be forfeit if Stanley learned of your presence here.”

“Have no fear on that score,” he said. “I do not mean to stay long.”
     This was like a blow to Mary’s heart, and she waited in silent dread for an explanation. He finished eating and shoved his bowl aside, bracing himself like a man prepared for an argument.

“The war is not over,” he said, “and nor is my duty. The Queen and the Prince of Wales have taken refuge at Eccleshall, and by rights I should be with them. It was only my love for you, Mary, and desire to see you again, that took me from that duty.”

“Your loyalty does you credit,” said Dame Anne, “but you must see that the war is done. The Earl of Warwick has the King in his power, York will soon return from Ireland, and the Queen’s supporters are hopelessly scattered. They will have to negotiate a peace now. You have done all you can, my son. There is no shame in hanging up your sword and resuming your life here. Perhaps we can come to some accommodation with the Sheriff. I have already bribed him once.”

He raised his eyebrows – Dame Anne had never referred to Henry as her son before. She had always reckoned him shiftless, lacking in purpose and brains, but the fires of war had apparently re-forged his character.

“How little both of you know,” he said with sudden contempt in his voice, “stuck away here in Staffordshire, relying on panicky rumours for your understanding of the world. The north is still for Lancaster, and the south-west, and there is much support for the Queen in Wales and Scotland. She has the heart of a soldier, and means to fight for her son’s throne. A new army will be raised to oppose York.”

“New armies, fresh slaughters!” Mary cried, sparked into anger by his tone. “Christ save us, is there no end to the blood-letting?”

“The end will come,” he said firmly, “when the King is restored to his full power and authority, and the heads of York and his fellow traitors decorate spikes over London Bridge. The Queen will honour me for my good service, and restore Sedgley to us.”

They attempted to remonstrate with him, but no argument could shake his resolve to rejoin the Queen’s party. To their pleas that he was needed at home, he responded that his very presence at Heydon Court put them all in danger.

To Mary’s own plea, expressed later in the privacy of their bedchamber, that she could not bear to see him ride away again and not know when or if he might return, he replied stiffly that she must not make a coward or an oath-breaker of him.

“It is hard, I know,” he said, as they lay in the darkness together, “but the times are hard. I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then don’t,” said Mary, pressing her body closer to his and gently tracing the outline of the bruise under his collarbone. “It is not a question of duty. No-one has summoned you to fight. You are choosing to go of your own will.”

“You forget,” he replied, “my father was killed at Northampton. Butchered like an animal, as he tried to defend the King. My duty is therefore twofold. I must avenge his death and help to restore King Henry.”

Mary turned away from him in disgust. “Revenge,” she said angrily. “Revenge is the poison that infects England, driving men mad. My brother wanted revenge for our father. Old Huntley wants revenge for his son. You want revenge for your father. A father who never knew you, and never wished to!”

He lay silent for a while. When Mary’s anger had cooled and she ventured to touch his face, her fingertips brushed against hot tears.

“At Northampton,” he said, his voice trembling with passion, “when the banners of the enemy came in sight, the Duke of Buckingham called me to him, embraced me as his son, and dubbed me a knight. Less than half an hour later he was dead, and I was fleeing for my life. I failed to save him, Mary. I will not fail to avenge him.”

Henry left the next morning, armed and mounted like some Border outrider rather than the knight he was. He had taken a jack, sallet, sword and lance from the armoury, and persuaded Hodson to lend him a horse.

“Promised to pay me three times the beast’s value, when he returns,” Mary overheard Hodson grumble as the household gathered at the gate to watch him go. “A likely tale. But he is Lady’s Mary’s husband, and so I dared not refuse him.”

Mary rounded on him, bidding him mind his tongue unless he wished a hole bored in it, but in truth she had some sympathy. Henry had made more than one hollow promise.

“When the land is at peace again,” he said to her as they shared a final embrace before he left, “I shall not leave your side again until death parts us. I swear it.”

He lied. Mary never saw him again.

Five days after Henry’s departure the war came to Heydon Court. Mary watched from the parapet of the gatehouse as Huntley’s soldiers came into view, a column of spears and banners marching from the north-east. It was a hot, still day, and a great cloud of dust overhung the column as it drew nearer, advancing along the rough winding road from the direction of Stafford.

The banners of Huntley and Ramage were to the fore, and the unmistakable figure of John Huntley the Elder rode at the head of the column. His fat carcase was encased in steel and perched on an ugly, plodding Flemish mare. Huntley the Younger rode behind him, his ruined face hidden inside a visored helm. At his side was Edmund Ramage, a dried-up wisp of a man, chinless and hook-nosed, his expression that of one perpetually afflicted by bad smells.

“One hundred and twenty-five,” said Hodson, shading his eyes against the sun as he counted spears. “Only two score wear the livery of Huntley and Ramage. The rest wear no badges.”

“They must be the Sheriff’s men, curse him,” said Mary, “and that is the Sheriff’s ordnance.”

She pointed to the rear of the column, where two guns mounted on carriages were being dragged by teams of horses. Hodson, who had experience of guns from his service in Gascony, studied them for a moment.

“A light serpentine,” he said, “which is but a popgun on wheels, and need not concern us much. The other is a bombard. These red-brick walls won’t stand more than one or two direct hits from that.”

Mary glanced at her mother on the walkway below. Dame Anne’s face was carved in stone as she watched her enemies tramp over the fields, ruining that year’s crop of barley.

“My mother is not for turning,” said Mary, “and will never yield the house until it is blown to dust and ashes.”

The garrison of Heydon Court was pitifully small. Besides Hodson and the other three men-at-arms, there were nine grooms and serving-men. Those not willing to risk their lives defending the house had been turned away. Four of the women had elected to stay – three maids and the cook, a stout old widow named Meg who had followed her soldier husband across France and Spain and survived many a siege.

“I have eaten rats before now, lady,” she declared when Mary begged her to seek shelter in Cromford village, “and lived through fire and sack and countless horrors – enough to turn your berry-brown hair white. I won’t be shifted by any pack of jackals that come scratching and whining at our gate.”

Mary’s brother James had not come, though word had been sent to All Saints Church. Mary assumed that he was lying swine drunk somewhere or lying abed with one of his mistresses.

Hodson had spent many afternoons instructing such of the household that remained, including Dame Anne and Mary, in the use of crossbows and the new-fashioned handguns, shooting at straw targets in the fields. Mary had become quite proficient with the crossbow, and fallen in love with the workings of the arquebus. For all the stink and noise it made, she thought it a wonderful weapon, capable of firing a lead ball through any harness forged by man.