Revenge (45 page)

   Mary dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “You have been away far too long,” she said crossly, “James forswore drink many years ago, and has since served Lancaster in ways we cannot imagine. He says little about his work, but I know the Bishop uses him as a messenger. I suspect he has put a knife between the shoulder-blades of more than one Yorkist agent.”       

   All of my brothers do their duty
, she thought,
while I am condemned to languish here and pray for them. Do they ever think of me, I wonder?

   It was a question she didn’t care to ask. Her brothers had fallen to talking animatedly about the battle at Edgecote, using plates and cutlery to represent the movements of various lords. There was a glow to their faces as they discussed strategy and slaughter.

   A chill stole over her. Soon, she felt certain, she would lose them again.

13.

Gainsborough, Lincolnshire

James hung back on the edge of the trees as his companions moved towards the manor house. He was not officially here – he was not officially anywhere, such was his will o’ the wisp existence – and it would not do for him to be seen. 

   His presence was necessary. Months of planning had gone into this raid and the intended consequences. It was originally his idea. Now all he could do was watch, and pray silently that all would go smoothly.

   The fifteen men-at-arms creeping towards the house were led by three knights – Sir Robert Welles, Sir Thomas de la Lande and Sir Thomas Dymmock. Pale light from the sliver of moon lit their way and reflected off their armour and weapons. Every man was armed as if going into battle. They had left their horses tethered in the woods, in case a swift retreat was needed.

   Gainsborough Hall was an impressive place, a large double L-shaped building, tiled and gabled and with a half-timbered upper storey. Large as it was, James doubted that the owner, Sir Thomas Burgh, retained even half as many armed men as were about to descend on his home.    

   A dog started to bark, shattering the peace of the night. James grimaced, and clutched the little silver crucifix he wore around his neck.

   Unlike the knights and men-at-arms, he wore a warm black cloak and a shawl over breeches and a mail shirt, and his only weapon was a dagger. He rode a courser, a sleek, muscular and above all fast animal, a gift from the Earl of Oxford.

   Welles and his men were just a few feet from the front door. James saw three of them rush to a window, and the frantic barking was joined by the sound of breaking glass as they smashed it in with the blunt end of a pole-axe.

   Two of the men swarmed over the sill. Seconds later, lights started to appear at the upper-floor windows. A shutter was thrown open and a befuddled voice called out, demanding to know what was happening.

  
Bloody stupid question
, thought James. If it had been him, he would have grabbed a crossbow and started shooting at the intruders with no questions asked. But then, he was a naturally suspicious character who lived his whole life on the edge of disaster. Sir Thomas Burgh was a prosperous landowner, who stood in high favour with King Edward and served as his Master of Horse, and resided in one of the most peaceful parts of England. No-one in their right mind would dare attack his house.

   James smirked. Those who deluded themselves into thinking that they lived in peace and security were always easy prey.

   A muffled cry sounded from inside the house, followed by a dreadful piercing scream. Doubtless one of Sir Thomas’s servants had just met with an unhappy accident.

   The timbered and nailed door rumbled open, unlocked by the men who had climbed through the window, and their comrades surged in.

   James listened, heart hammering, as all hell broke out inside the house. Yells and screams mingled with the scrape of steel and the sound of breaking furniture and bodies being hurled about. Sir Robert was under orders not to harm Sir Thomas and his family if it could possibly be avoided, but the guards and servants were fair game.

   After a time a side-door flew open, and Sir Thomas emerged, clad only in his night-shirt and with a bloodied sword in his hand. A woman in her night-dress hurried out after him, her hair loose and unbound, ushering four little children ahead of her.

   Sir Thomas quickly shepherded them towards the stables, all the while casting fearful looks at the house and the nearby woods. Perhaps he expected more men to come charging out of the darkness, but there was only James, and he intended to remain hidden.

   The family briefly vanished inside one the stables, and re-merged mounted on a pair of destriers, with the children perched in front of their parents. A shaft of moonlight fell across the face of Sir Thomas’s wife. She was pallid and drawn with fear, and her eyes resembled those of a hunted animal. James felt a pang of sympathy for her, and quickly smothered it. She was the wife of a Yorkist, and shared in the guilt of his treason.

   He watched them ride off through the trees. There was no attempt at pursuit. Sir Thomas Burgh and his family were not in themselves important.

   The chaos in the house had died down somewhat, replaced by the sound of raised voices as Sir Robert and his men argued over their plunder. They would loot and kill for a good while yet.

   James decided to leave them to it. He had seen what he needed to. With a twitch of his reins, he turned his courser around and cantered away.       

   It was a four-day ride to Warwick Castle, thanks to the appalling weather and the poor state of the roads. The unbearable heat of summer and autumn had degenerated into a dreadful winter, the worse James could remember since the year of Towton.

   He was in his mid-thirties now, and beginning to tire of riding up and down the highways and byways of England in all weathers at the behest of feuding lords. Only his sense of duty and loyalty kept him going: “there never was a Bolton that broke a pledge,” as his mother had been fond of saying, and James didn’t intend to be the first to break with that tradition.

   Warwick Castle loomed through the mist and rain one drear morning, looking like the gloomiest and most impregnable stronghold in Christendom. James had been summoned there once before, but still felt intimidated as he passed under the yawning arch of the barbican. He disliked castles, considering them great mountains of stone piled up to keep the people of England flat on their backs.

   An archer wearing a livery coat displaying the bear and ragged staff took his horse and pointed him in the direction of the Great Hall, though James knew the way. He bustled towards the entrance, drawing his robe tighter about him against the rain, and climbed the steps to the huge echoing cavern where the Earl of Warwick staged feasts and entertained guests. 

   The hall was empty save for a few servants clearing up the remains of breakfast, and the usual dogs prowling about for scraps among the rushes. James informed one of the servants who he was. The man laid down his pile of dirty plates and hurried out of a side-door.

   He returned with a shaven-headed clerk and a couple of beefy halberdiers. James knew the clerk, but still they insisted on searching him for weapons. He had given his dagger to the archer who took his horse, and so was deemed safe and escorted up a spiral stair to a private chamber.

   Warwick was sitting at a desk with his back to the door, writing a letter by the light filtering through the polished glass of a big lancet window.

   The clerk paused on the threshold. “James Bolton to see you, lord,” he said. Warwick didn’t look up from his work, but grunted and stabbed a finger at a window seat.

   His servants bowed their way out, though James knew that the halberdiers would remain on guard outside the door. It paid for a man in Warwick’s position to be cautious.

   James arranged himself on the window seat and demurely folded his hands. He waited for the earl to speak. Minutes plodded by in silence, broken only by the sound of Warwick’s quill scratching across vellum.

   “This is a private letter,” Warwick said eventually, “assuring Lord Welles that he can count on my full support and friendship in the times to come. Do I need to send it?”

   James cleared his throat. “Yes, lord. Three nights ago Lord Welles’ son, Sir Thomas de la Lande and Sir Thomas Dymmock attacked Sir Thomas Burgh’s house at night. No harm came to Burgh and his family, but they were forced to flee.”

   Warwick sat back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. He had still not looked at James. “They will appeal to the king for justice,” he said slowly, “and he will not be able to deny it to them.”    

   “That much we have already predicted, lord.”

   A great deal had been predicted. This plot had been brewing for months, ever since last October, when King Edward suddenly wrenched back the power that Warwick had taken from him.

   Warwick’s attempt to rule England with the King as his puppet had been a spectacular failure. Unable to quell the riots and disturbances that broke out all over England after the Battle of Edgecote, he had been forced to give Edward back his authority.

   As soon as he tasted freedom, Edward had summoned his brother Gloucester, Lord Hastings and other loyal lords, and returned to London and the welcoming arms of Queen Elizabeth. Once ensconced in the capital, and enjoying the full support of parliament, Edward was once again King of England in fact as well as in name. 

   Since then Warwick and his protégé Clarence had been frozen out. Unwelcome at court, barred from wielding any real power or influencing government policy, injury was added to insult when Warwick was deprived of the titles he had stolen from Lord Herbert. They were given instead to Edward’s loyal brother Gloucester.

   James had been a discreet member of Warwick’s household since the wedding at Calais. He was in London at the time of the Battle of Edgecote, helping to draft pro-Warwick propaganda in the city. There he heard of the crucial role the White Hawk had played in the fighting. James had schooled himself against emotion, but felt genuine pride when he heard the news, and relief that his brother Richard was alive after all the years of uncertainty.

   He didn’t allow fraternal sentiment to distract him from his work. Warwick was edging closer to declaring all-out war against the King, and James was determined to see that happen. His outward loyalty to the earl was just a mask. Underneath he despised Warwick as much as he despised Edward of March. His ambition was to set them on each other, like a couple of dogs in a cage. With any luck they would tear each other to shreds.

   “Much depends on the King’s reaction,” said Warwick, scratching his neatly trimmed beard, “the raid on Gainsborough Hall was an outrage that no monarch worthy of respect could ignore. He will have to make a show of force.”

   “I agree, lord. And when he does, Lord Welles and his son shall seek powerful allies to save them from the king’s wrath. They can only turn to you, their friend and kinsman.”

   Warwick scraped back his chair, stood up and started to pace around the room. His usual air of arrogant self-assurance was gone. Franklin was alarmed by the earl’s demeanour, and started to fear that he meant to abandon the scheme.

   “This is a dance,” said Warwick, “we must watch our steps carefully. I want you to go to London and observe the King’s reaction to the attack on Burgh.”

   James had expected that. “Shall I speak to the Duke of Clarence while I am there?”

   “No. Do not approach him. I have other ways of communicating with the duke. Merely observe, and report back to me here.”

   James obediently made his way to London, again braving the worst of the weather, and rented lodgings above an ale-house near Westminster. From there he received messages from certain of his contacts inside Parliament, and worked on a report to take back to the Earl of Warwick, when the time came.

   He was writing at his desk on a typically cold and wet day in early March, with rain pelting at the shutters, when a young man arrived with a note from the Earl of Oxford.

   James carefully inspected the brief message, scribbled on a piece of vellum. He had received the occasional message from Oxford before, and recognised his hand. With typical brevity, it simply read “Come at once”.

   Oxford’s messenger was a hard-faced youth, an esquire in the earl’s household if James any judge, maybe even a knight. The youth wasn’t forthcoming, and had clearly been chosen for his efficiency and discretion.

   “It seems I must come,” remarked James, handing back the note, “but where to? Lead on, young man.”

   He soon had his answer. The youth led him through rain-lashed streets to another ale-house in Westminster. This one was called The Black Boar. A large square sign depicting a black boar’s head hung from the pole above the door. The paint was peeling, and the place had a seedy, run-down appearance, not the sort of establishment one might expect to find an earl: that, of course, was the point.

   They hurried through the taproom, a foul-smelling, shadowy den with a few down-at-heel customers slumped by the fire, and up the rickety stairs to one of the bedchambers. There they found Oxford sat on a stool and moodily contemplating the weather.

   The earl was a big man, with powerful shoulders and a large round head mounted on a thick, sinewy neck. He had a tendency to hunch forward, giving him a slightly round-shouldered appearance, and his piercing grey eyes, abrupt manner and harsh, guttural voice made him an intimidating man to talk to.