Revenge (38 page)

   By now the men-at-arms were paying attention. One of them stepped forward, ale jug dangling from his hand. This was Ralph Hodson, the old soldier and veteran of the French wars who had served in the Bolton household for as long as he could remember. A little older and greyer, with the suggestion of a paunch and a vicious white scar on his jaw that Richard didn’t remember being there before, but still recognisable.

   “Hodson,” he said quietly, “you know me.”

   “I do that,” replied the other, “I would know you anywhere, Master Richard, though you are a man grown now.”

   Martin had listened to this exchange with a look of confusion and disbelief, steadily giving way to astonishment. He looked hard at Richard, who returned his gaze with interest.

   “You are the image of our father,” said Richard, “God rest him.”

   The younger man’s mouth worked, as though he fought for speech, and his ruddy cheeks paled.

   “Impossible,” he muttered, “you died. They all told me you had died. Cut down at Towton, as our father was at Blore Heath.”

   Richard tapped the badge on his chest. “My youth died at Towton. I left it for dead on the field. The man that crawled away was very different to the brother you once knew. But I am still Richard Bolton. I am still The White Hawk.”

8.

Events moved quickly, and the day after Richard’s arrival at Middleham the rebel army was ordered to break camp and prepare to march.

   Gallopers arrived from the south, carrying news that King Edward had taken the bait of Northumberland’s letter, and was marching towards Newark with a small force. A wave of optimism rolled over the camp, bolstered by assurances that the rebels outnumbered the royal army by four or even five to one.

   Sir William Conyers, though he now insisted on being called Robin of Redesdale, mounted a platform on the morning of the march and addressed his troops. He was a stocky, powerful man, a tough northerner with a harsh bull-horn of a voice that carried well in the chill morning air.

   “Our cause is just,” he bellowed, “for it is no treason to take up arms against a King who has broken his coronation oaths, the solemn covenant between a monarch and his subjects. It is no treason to take up arms against one who has excluded persons of royal blood from his inner council, and given preference to the covetous ambitions and deceitful guidance of low-born seditious traitors!”

   This was a reference to the Woodvilles, the King’s unpopular in-laws. Conyers’ mocking description of them dragged cheers from the throats of many of the northerners, who believed the Woodvilles responsible for their woes.

   Conyers waited for the cheers to die down before continuing. “The misrule of the King and his favourites has brought our realm into poverty and misery. My friends, they have milked us like cows, for their own promotion and enrichment. No more! The land cries out for justice, and there is only one man who can bring it – only one lord who rides with the blessing of God and the love of the people. A Warwick! A Warwick!”

   This met with less acclaim. Many of those listening, like the Boltons, were Lancastrians who had joined the rebellion in the hope of unseating the House of York. Few of them were inclined to hail Warwick, the man who had done so much to bring Edward of March to the throne.

   The common folk felt different. Most were tenants and dependents of the Nevills, and happy to cheer their feudal lord, even though they had hardly ever seen him. Despite the early hour, they were already drunk, thanks to the endless flow of free ale and mead Conyers had supplied, and roared “A Warwick! A Warwick!” with drink-fuelled abandon.

   After Conyers had finished his exhortation, the rebel army shook itself into rough order and began the march, following the branch of the Great North Road that passed through Middleham and led south to the midlands. Conyers and his household knights and men-at-arms made up the vanguard, with the rest of the barons and gentry behind them in order of degree. Archers, billmen and halberdiers tramped along in the rear, dogged by a great horde of ill-armed and intoxicated peasants.

   Many of the latter sang lustily as they straggled along, and the grey northern skies echoed to shouts of “A Warwick!”, “Saint George for England!” and “We are Robyn Hode’s men, war, war, war!” 

   “Those clods will soon fall behind,” remarked Richard, twisting in the saddle to observe the disorganised mass of footmen, “thank God. I would not trust them to form a straight line in battle, never mind withstand a charge.”

   Martin said nothing. The brothers had had little time to celebrate their reunion, and a celebration was unlikely in any case. Neither was given much to displays of affection. They had spoken little the previous night. Sensing the awkwardness between them, Richard had set up his tent well away from Martin’s pavilion.

   Despite the assurances of Hodson and the other men-at-arms, Martin was still having difficulty believing that this hard-faced stranger was his brother. He also harboured feelings of anger and resentment that could not be suppressed any longer.

   “Why did you not come home?” he burst out, “why did you stay away from us, and leave our widowed sister to bear the burden of managing the estate? Our mother is dead, you know. She wasted away when the news of Towton reached Heydon Court. We were told that you had died, slaughtered during the rout. Henry of Sedgley’s body was brought back on a cart.”

   He immediately regretted breaking the news of Dame Anne’s death in such a crude manner. Richard went white, and Martin only had to look at the sorrow and pain in his eyes to finally accept who he claimed to be.    

   They rode on in silence for a while, avoiding each other’s gaze. The long, snaking column of horses and men marched at a rapid pace, accompanied by drums and pipes. Conyers intended to reach Newark before the King could learn of the size of the rebel host. He sent scouts galloping down the road to report on the movements of the royalists and to bring back news of Warwick and Clarence, who by now should have landed at Sandwich.

   Richard broke the tension. “I could not go home,” he said, “that would have meant submitting to the usurper. I had seen too many loyal men die in battle to force a smile and bend the knee before Edward of March. And I was a wanted felon in Staffordshire. Our family’s only chance of peace was if I stayed away.”

   “You could have sent a letter!” shouted Martin, startling his horse, “just a brief note, to let us know you were still alive. It would have been some comfort to our mother. You were her favourite.”

   Richard gave a wry smile. “I doubt that. My actions almost brought destruction down on us. The last time I saw her, she was cursing my name and threatening me with a mother’s curse if I did not quit the county.”

   Martin had to look away and bite back a retort. Much more of this and he would lose his temper. Now was not the time. They had a King to ensnare, and probably a battle to fight. He had no experience of war, and the prospect of fighting, real fighting instead of training on the practice field outside Heydon Court, played on his nerves.

   “They sing ballads of me in Lancashire,” said Richard, “the exploits of The White Hawk. Exaggerated, of course. I did hope that one or two might have reached home.”

   “We heard a fragment or two of verse,” Martin replied curtly, “but scarcely dared to hope they were about you. We are not the only family in England to have a white hawk for our sigil.”

   Martin’s anger, coupled with his fear of the coming battle, was threatening to choke him, so he fell quiet again. His brother had enough wisdom to do the same, and they rode on in unhappy silence.

   The rebels continued south, bypassing Ripon and Harrogate, before making camp for the night on some open ground a few miles north of Leeds. A steady trickle of recruits came in to join them, minor local lords and their retainers, along with a few commoners and outlaws motivated by hatred of the king and the opportunity for pillage.

   Richard was again careful to set his tent at a respectable distance from his brother, and spent the evening dicing and drinking with his men. Their spirits were high, though a few still resented serving under the bear and ragged staff. One or two had got into fights with Warwick’s men-at-arms, and sported bloody noses and black eyes for their trouble.

   “It was worth it,” grinned one, though both his eyes were swelling and closing up fast, “just to feel the crunch of Yorkist teeth under my fist.”

   Richard sighed, and wondered how long the rebel army could stay together without dividing into factions. They needed to fight a battle, and soon.

   Next morning some of the scouts returned to inform Conyers that King Edward had arrived at Newark with some fifteen hundred men, but gave no sign of advancing any further. 

   “Pity,” said Richard, “damn his wariness. If we caught Edward in the open with such a paltry following, we could smash him.”      

   Conyers increased the pace, obliging the infantry to break into a jog. As Richard had predicted, the commoners started to fall behind, discouraged by the unwonted exercise and the onset of sobriety.

  
Not so foolish as they look
, thought Martin. To his shame, his hands had started to tremble. He prayed Richard wouldn’t notice.

   He also kept expecting dreadful news from the south. Edward of March enjoyed a fine reputation as a soldier, and was undefeated in battle. He had destroyed the Lancastrians at Mortimer’s Cross and Towton, though it was said in that recent years he had given way to idleness and easy living. Whether that was true or not, Martin could not believe that Edward would merely sit at Newark and wait for the rebels to descend upon him.

   His fears were realised. The army was nearing Sheffield when word arrived that the King had abandoned Newark and fallen back to Nottingham, to take shelter behind its thicker walls. Even worse, Yorkist reinforcements were hurrying up from the Marches and the south-west, led by the Earls of Pembroke and Devon.

   Conyers called a halt and summoned his captains to a quick council of war. Though he only commanded fifteen men, Richard’s slight fame as a ballad hero was enough to include him in the summons. He took Martin with him, and the young man listened intently as the captains argued.

   “As yet we have no news of my lord Warwick,” said Conyers, “but must carry on regardless of that. The King is holed up in Nottingham, and his creatures Pembroke and Devon are advancing with all speed to reach him before we do. That is not going to happen.”

   He stabbed his finger at a map of the north and the midlands, which he held flat against a tree by the roadside. “I propose we march straight past Nottingham, and get between the King and his reinforcements. That way we can cut him off from London, and meet up with my lord Warwick and the Duke of Clarence when they march north from Sandwich.”

   “Assuming they have even sailed from Calais,” remarked an elderly knight. Conyers bared his teeth at him.

   “Of course they have sailed,” he snarled, “why should they hold back now? Everything is in our favour.”

   “What if we meet with Pembroke and Devon?” asked Richard, greatly daring, “do we know how many men they have?”

   “Not yet,” admitted Conyers, “but I know the calibre of those two gentlemen. They loathe each other like poison, and are more likely to fight each other than us. Have no fear of them.”

   Richard didn’t look satisfied with this answer, but it wasn’t his place to question Conyers further. Warwick’s steward barked down anyone else who tried to criticise his plan, and so the army set off again on as rapid a march as the badly-kept roads would allow.

   The weather grew warmer as they headed further south, bypassing the great walled city of Nottingham and its impressive castle, perched high on a sandstone crag. The royal banner flew from the towers of the keep, and the rebels jeered and shook their fists at it as they marched past.

   “I wager Edward’s shitting himself in there,” Martin overheard one archer say to his mate.

   “If that fat bastard voids his bowels, he’ll drown everyone inside the castle,” replied the other, to a shout of coarse laughter from their fellows. Martin had to smile, though he didn’t share their confidence in Edward’s fear. He imagined the King coolly watching the rebel army from the battlements, counting their numbers and making his plans. 

   The army was nearing Leicester when the news finally arrived that every man had been waiting and hoping for: Warwick and Clarence, along with the Earl of Oxford and other dissident lords, had landed in England. They had immediately proceeded to Canterbury, where they were welcomed by the people, and were now marching on London at the head of a sizeable army.

   Any flagging spirits in the rebel host were immediately raised, and Martin could not help but notice a change come over his brother.

   “At last,” Richard kept muttering, “we have him at last. Revenge. Revenge.”

   Martin still didn’t know what to make of his long-lost sibling, but was intrigued. “Revenge for our father?” he asked quietly.

   “Revenge for all,” hissed Richard, turning to look at Martin with an unsettling gleam in his eyes, “our father, our brother-in-law, and all those men who fought and died against the traitors that plague this land. I thought the Devil’s servants had prevailed, but we have them. We have their balls in a vice.”