Revenge (37 page)

  
Much later, after the wedding feast at the castle had ended and the last guests had staggered home - many of the poorest carrying as much roast meat as they could carry on the ends of their daggers, a custom Warwick had invented – the priest was brought to him. Warwick’s efficient secretary arranged for the man to be smuggled into the castle via a postern gate, and escorted to a solar on the upper storey of the keep.

   Warwick sat patiently by the fire. One of his esquires stood guard by the door, but otherwise he was alone. The sound of drunken singing and laughter filtered through the narrow slit window. It came from the guardroom, where a few of the castle garrison were determined to drink the health of Clarence and Isabella until the small hours.

   There was a discreet knock on the door. Warwick’s esquire cautiously opened it a fraction, one hand curled around the grip of his dagger. He peered through the gap, and some of the bowstring tautness went out of his body.

   “It’s him, lord,” he said.

   Warwick raised a finger in acknowledgment, and the esquire swung the door open and stepped aside.

   The priest entered, his face covered by a dark grey hooded mantle. Two other men dogged his heels, hard-faced killers in plain black clothing whom Warwick employed in his personal guard.

   “Show your face,” Warwick commanded. The priest obediently pushed back his hood. Seen close up, he was a younger man than Warwick had judged in the church, with red hair, a milky-white complexion and bad skin. 

   “He was carrying a knife, lord,” said one of the guards, “but freely gave it up when we searched him on the gate.”

   “He can have it back when he leaves,” replied Warwick, settling back in his chair, “even men of God have need of knives. Leave us. All of you.”

   He nodded at his esquire, who reluctantly followed the guards out and quietly pulled the door closed. 

   “You passed a sealed letter to my private secretary,” said Warwick when they were alone, “the letter claimed that you are a chaplain in the service of the Bishop of Lichfield, and that you have a message for me.”

   The priest gave a little nod. “Yes, lord.”

   “Your name?

   “James Bolton of Staffordshire. I come from Sir William Conyers, who sends his greetings to your lordship.”

   “I am obliged to him. Give me the letter.”

   “There is no letter, lord. Sir William was good enough to confide in me the details of his message.”

   Warwick raised his eyebrows. This was an unusual degree of trust to place in an agent. He would have credited the steward of his northern estates with more discretion.

   “Let’s have it, then,” he said,shifting uneasily in his seat.

   “He begs to inform your lordship that the seeds of rebellion are already bursting into flower. Robin of Holderness successfully raised the men of Holderness in protest against the corn tax levied by the House of St Leonard, and marched on York. Your brother advanced swiftly to meet the rebels before they could reach the city, and dispersed them.”

   This was encouraging news. ‘Robin of Holderness’ was an alias adopted by a man named Robert Hillyard, a tenant of the Percies but secretly in the service of John Nevill, Earl of Northumberland and another of Warwick’s brothers.

   The entire Holderness rebellion was a hoax, devised by Warwick to fool King Edward. By pretending to disperse the ‘rebels’ – in reality Warwick’s retainers disguised as peasants – Northumberland would seem to have proved his loyalty to the crown.

   “Hillyard is now sheltering in Warkworth Castle,” James went on, “and Northumberland has sent a letter to the King claiming to have taken Robin of Holderness captive and executed him outside the gates of York.”

   Warwick nodded in satisfaction. So far his brother had played his role to perfection.

   “What of the King?” he asked, “has he taken the bait?”

   “Yes, lord. Northumberland said in his letter that there was still trouble in the north, and that His Majesty’s presence was necessary. When I left England, the King had left London and was on his way to Newark with his brother Gloucester, Earl Rivers and Lord Scales.”

   “How many men has Edward got with him?”

   “Some fifteen hundred, lord. Only a small force.”

   Warwick beamed and rubbed his hands. All the parts of his plan were slotting into place.

   His jaw tightened as he pictured the hateful, self-satisfied faces of his enemies. King Edward, the man he had once loved like a brother and spilled so much blood and gold for; the Woodvilles, Edward’s in-laws, jumped-up minor gentry whom the King had seen fit to shower with titles and favour. Earl Rivers and Lord Scales were the most prominent among them, though there were others.

   All of them would soon rue the day they chose to league against the Earl of Warwick. His revenge had been many months in the planning.

   Everything depended on Sir William Conyers. Warwick had faith in the man, but even the most faithful servants could make mistakes.

   “Conyers raised his banner while Northumberland was making a show of dealing with Robin of Holderness,” said James, “as instructed, he has taken the name Robin of Redesdale and issued a petition calling on the King to dismiss his evil advisors and put aside the Woodvilles.”

   Warwick gripped the arms of his chair. This was the crux.

   “The people of the north have risen in their thousands, lord, along with a great many knights and barons. An army is gathering in Yorkshire, much larger than the one King Edward has with him.”

   “I shall sail at once,” said Warwick, “as soon as the wind is favourable, and seize London while the King is in the north.”

   He stopped calculating for a moment and looked appreciatively at James. The man was a little too inscrutable for his liking, but had done well to get to Calais so quickly.

   “You are a brave man,” said Warwick, “as well as a trustworthy one. Bishop Hales evidently places great faith in you.”

   “His Grace is kind,” James replied.

   “The fate of other Lancastrian agents has not been pretty. You remember the shoemaker, John Cornelius? The King’s men caught him last year, carrying letters from Queen Margaret into England. They burned his feet with hot irons until he confessed to his treason and implicated many others. After that, just for fun, they continued to torture him until he died.”

   He looked for any signs of fear or doubt in James’ eyes. Absolute certainty stared back at him.

   “God’s will is paramount, lord,” he said.

   “God’s will? You see God’s hand at work here?”

   “Of course, lord. Eight years ago Edward of March unseated the rightful King by force of arms. He was mistaken. King Henry was anointed with holy oil and received the blessing of the church. He is God’s chosen monarch. Mere swords and lances cannot reverse that judgment.”

  His voice shook with genuine passion. Now Warwick knew where this mysterious priest derived his courage from. He was a fanatic. As one who served no higher purpose than himself, Warwick was wary of such men.

   “King Edward was also anointed,” he pointed out, “and received the blessing of the church. God’s judgment would appear to be a little clouded.”

   “With respect, lord, you are wrong. God’s will might be delayed, but it cannot be undone. The coronation of Edward IV was a mummer’s farce, with no legitimacy. Those who took part in it betrayed their oaths to Henry VI, and hence to God.”

   Warwick’s brow furrowed. “Have a care, priest,” he warned, “I was one of those who helped to place Edward on the throne.”

   “Indeed, lord, and for many years your soul stood in grave peril. It is to be hoped, however, that God has led you back onto the path of righteousness.”

   Warwick leaned back, impressed. Bishop Hale evidently chose his servants wisely. This James Bolton was made of true steel. Few men would dare throw Warwick’s sins back in his face. 

   He ran a hand through his beard, and studied James again. “What will you do in this war, James Bolton of Staffordshire?”

   “God’s will, lord.”

   Warwick could not help but laugh.

7.

“I’ll not fight for the Earl of Warwick,” said Jack Cloudsley, “I would rather cut my own throat than fight under a traitor’s banner. So, now.”

   The old soldier’s battered face was set in grim resolution. There was no arguing with him in such a mood, and Richard was not inclined to try.

   He looked around at his men. They stood in a circle in a clearing next to their camp, deep inside the forest. As their captain, Richard had summoned them all to this meeting. He feared it would be their last.

   “Jack has declared his intention,” said Richard, “what of the rest of you? We are all free men here, and I compel no man to do anything against his conscience. Those who will come with me, raise your hands.”

   Less than half did so, most of them hesitantly. Richard looked around at the ring of scarred, unshaved, unsmiling faces. He knew every man’s name, and their worth, and had come to love them all as brothers. They were survivors, diehard Lancastrian loyalists, unbowed by the endless sequence of defeat and privation that had been their lot for eight cruel years.

   The wet northern spring had given way to a dour summer. It was raining, the kind of mist-like drizzle that could last for days. The rain whispered through the forest, like a ghostly voice forever on the edge of hearing.

   “I will say only this,” he said, “I have fought against the House of York as hard as any of you. The blood of my kin has watered the ground in that fight. I despise Warwick, and Clarence, and all those who chose to betray the King.”

   He spread his hands. “We lost at Towton, and Hexham, and Hedgley Moor. For years the usurper has sat secure on his stolen throne. Now his friends are turning on him. They are poised to tear each other to pieces.”

   “Let them,” said a thin-faced little man named Alan Trowe, “let the Yorkist dogs fight, and let us watch them. Why should we get involved? Warwick and Clarence are for themselves, not for Lancaster.”

   A murmur of agreement rippled around the circle.

   “Lads, I have been to Middleham,” said Richard, raising his voice, “and seen the host that is gathering there under Warwick’s steward. Not just common men in their thousands, but knights and barons and their retinues. I recognised many of their banners. Loyal Lancastrians, men just like us.”

   “Not like us,” rumbled Cloudsley, “they bent the knee and swore loyalty to the usurper. Now they seek to betray him. Double-dyed traitors.”

   “What choice did they have? Edward of March would have taken their lands if they refused to submit, and cast their families into prison. Yes, they smiled and bowed and swore false oaths. It was that, or destruction and exile.”

   There were still far too many sullen faces in the circle. “Warwick and Clarence are our last hope!” he shouted, smacking his fist into his palm, “only they have the men and the support to challenge the usurper. Only they can unseat him!”

   “Even if they succeed, they won’t restore King Harry,” put in Alan, “or bring the Queen back from France. Warwick will put Clarence on the throne, or even himself.”

   “He may crown a monkey if he wishes. It cannot last. The people won’t accept a fool like Clarence as their King. Nor will they tolerate Warwick attempting to steal the crown. He will have to bring King Henry out of the Tower, and restore him to his rightful place.”

   The argument went back and forth for some time. By the end, Richard had persuaded a few more to ride with him to join the rebel army gathering at Middleham.

   Jack Cloudsley and thirteen others remained obdurate. These were the older men who had lost everything fighting for Lancaster – homes, families, friends, lords – and they would not compromise now, for any price.

   There was no bitterness or rancour at the splitting of the band, only regret. “God and the Saints go with you,” said Jack as he shook Richard’s hand.

   “And you,” replied Richard, “where will you go now?”

   The veteran gave a careless shrug. Knowing he would get no more out of him, Richard smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. They would not set eyes on each other again, he suspected, this side of eternity.

   He took his fifteen loyal men and rode east. Middleham Castle was over twenty miles away, across the range of windswept hills and dales that separated Lancashire from Yorkshire. After an hour of hard riding the flags and turrets of the castle came within sight.

   Four days earlier, Richard had ridden this way alone to see if the rumours of the enormous rebel host gathering at Middleham were true. He had seen enough tents scattered about the fields outside the town to convince him that something was happening, though the rumours of the size of the host were exaggerated.

   They did not seem exaggerated now. A forest of tents and pavilions had sprouted up around the town and castle. Hundreds of banners and pennons and streamers hung limply in the wan sunshine.

   Richard’s heart swelled at the sight. For the first time since the destruction of the last Lancastrian field army at Hexham, he felt a flicker of genuine hope.

   He led his men at the canter down towards the eastern boundary of the camp. A troop of prickers – lightly-armoured soldiers on ponies – saw them coming, and rode to meet them.

   “Halt,” cried their captain, his men spreading out either side of him, “state your name and business here.”

   Richard reined in and signalled at his men to do the same. “Richard Bolton,” he replied, “gentleman of Staffordshire. We heard of the muster here, and the petition against the King, and have come to serve under Robin of Redesdale.”

   The captain grinned and scratched his bristly chin. “More meat for the pot, eh?” he remarked, running a professional eye over the outlaws, “your lads look well enough. And you brought your own gear and horses, which is always good. Wait…”

   He had spotted the badge displaying the sigil of the white hawk on Richard’s chest. “You came from Lancashire, yes?” he said, frowning, “I’m from Wigan myself.”

   “The forests of Kendall,” Richard replied, and was gratified as light dawned in the captain’s eyes.

   “The White Hawk bent a right good bow, carved from a trusty tree…” he sang in a low bass rumble, “well, well. So you’re The White Hawk. They are singing ballads about you, my friend. You’re very welcome to join us, though I thought you would have a larger following.”

   Richard bristled. “Not all my men were willing to put aside the past. They would not fight under the bear and ragged staff for anything. Me, I’m more practical.”

   “You’re not the first to say that,” said the captain with another grin, “and you’re not the first hawk to alight in our camp, either.”

   “You had best come along with me,” he laughed in response to Richard’s puzzled look. “John, you’re in charge until I get back.”

   This was to his second-in-command, who gave a brisk salute as the captain turned his horse and gestured at Richard and his men to follow.

   He took them through the camp, a sprawling mess of tents and cooking fires, notable for its lack of order and discipline. Richard saw plenty of archers and billmen and men-at-arms, along with a great number of common folk: not just cooks, grooms, smiths and the other menials needed to keep an army in the field, but peasants armed with all manner of makeshift weapons.

   “The King is unpopular, especially in Yorkshire,” explained the captain as they trotted past one group of ruffians noisily finishing off a barrel of ale, “the people here think that Robin of Redesdale will deliver them from high taxes, royal oppression and corrupt justices.”

   “And bring back the good weather, no doubt,” Richard said distractedly.

   He had spotted a blue and white striped pavilion, smaller than many others but still clearly belonging to a gentleman. A large sandy-haired youth wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak over his hose and undershirt sat beside a camp fire nearby, wolfing bread and stew from a wooden platter. Four men-at-arms lounged on the grass next to him, much older men with grey in their hair, talking quietly and sharing a jug of ale.  

   A streamer of blue silk hung limply from a pole set up outside the entrance to the pavilion. The silk rippled as the wind caught it, and for a moment The White Hawk of Bolton was in flight.

   “I will leave you here,” the captain said, and gave a final salute before turning and riding back to his post.

   Richard dragged on his reins, bringing his horse to a halt, and gaped at the impossible.

   The youth looked up, saw him, and frowned. “What do you want, fellow?” he said irritably, waving his spoon at Richard, “does a ghost stand behind me?”

   Richard had not seen Martin, his youngest brother, for eight years, ever since he fled from Heydon Court with his mother’s curses ringing in his ears. Martin was only a boy then, a dwarf compared to the giant who spoke to him now.

   Even so, Richard knew him instantly. “Martin,” he said hoarsely.

   The youth’s eyes widened – blue eyes, Richard noticed, so much like their father’s – and he laid aside his platter and rose to his full impressive height.

   “Who are you?” he demanded angrily.

   “I am one who stood over your cradle, sixteen years ago, and wondered how this squalling bit of flesh could be my brother.”