Revenge (47 page)

   “Go, lads, if you wish,” Richard told them sadly, “go and run with Jack Cloudsley in the greenwood. I am spent.”

   They took him at his word, and soon only three of the company remained with him. Richard was still struggling to find the courage to leave when a message arrived at the inn from Heydon Court, carried by Hodson.

   Hodson wordlessly handed him the parchment. Richard unfolded it and read:
  
“To my kin at Heydon Court, be this delivered in haste,

  
I have but time for this brief note. Know that Sir Robert Welles, a gentleman of Lincolnshire, has raised the men of that county against the usurper and that his army marches on Stamford, to join with the men raised by Lord Scrope of Bolton.

   I cannot tell you why and how this has come about, except to say that God has given us another chance to strike at the House of York. Welles and Scrope have the support of the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence, though they yet pretend friendship to Edward of March.

   Brothers, I know you will wish to be in at the death. I urge you to join the muster at Stamford, and share in the final victory of God and Lancaster.

   Your loving brother,

   James Bolton.”

  Richard smiled as he read. God, in the unlikely shape of James Bolton, had finally tossed some good fortune his way. He could not imagine what convoluted politics were behind this latest rebellion, and neither did he care overmuch.

   “Has Martin seen this?” he asked Hodson.

   “Yes,” the burly man-at-arms replied, “but he and Lady Mary are agreed that it would be folly to join this venture. If this Welles and his allies can defeat the King, all well and good, but there is no guarantee.”

   “There are never any guarantees in war. You’re an old soldier, Hodson, you should know that.”

   Hodson gathered up his reins. “You may keep the letter. Lady Mary sends her regards.”

   “But not her love, eh?”

   The other man didn’t reply, but turned his horse about and rode back the way he had come.   

15.

Royston

Edward ran a suspicious eye over the two weary, travel-stained knights standing before him. One was from the Earl of Warwick, the other the Duke of Clarence. Both had delivered letters from those worthies to the king, protesting their loyalty and friendship and promising to hurry north and lend military aid as soon as possible.

   “As I understand it, your masters are at Coventry,” he said, tapping the letters on his lap with his forefinger, “why have they not offered me their support before?”

   “My lord of Warwick waits upon commissions of array from Your Majesty,” replied one of the knights with a debonair bow, “once he has them, he will set about raising his forces.”

   Edward thought for a moment. He never ceased to suspect Warwick and his treacherous brother of intriguing against him. Their current behaviour was difficult to fathom. It was only right and proper that a peer should wait on a royal commission of array before raising troops, and for once Warwick seemed anxious to observe the forms.

   The king was in a dangerous position. The feud between Lord Welles and Sir Thomas Burgh, which in other circumstances might have been a piffling local affair, had exploded out of all proportion. Edward’s decision to summon Welles and Dymmock to London and then arrest and interrogate them – a mistake, he now appreciated – had inspired Welles’ son to summon the men of Lincolnshire to arms.

   According to Lord Cromwell’s steward at Tattershall Castle, the rebel army now massing at Stamford numbered over a hundred thousand men, even bigger than the army under Robin of Redesdale the previous year. Edward had raised barely a tenth of that before arriving at Royston. He suspected that the numbers were exaggerated – they had to be, unless every able-bodied man in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire had been put under arms.  

   Robin of Redesdale, Lord Welles, Sir Robert Welles, Sir Thomas Dymmock, Lord Scrope of Bolton…the list of men willing to betray him went on and on, and always the twin shadows of Warwick and Clarence lurked in the background. He sometimes imagined them skulking behind his throne, waiting to snatch the crown from his head if he allowed himself a moment’s rest.

   On the other hand, if he refused to grant Warwick a commission, the earl might use it as an excuse to join the rebels. Edward silently cursed his one-time friend. He was being given no option but to trust him.

   “I have ordered Sir Geoffrey Malvern to fetch Lord Welles and Sir Thomas Dymmock from London,” he said, “once they arrive, I mean to interrogate them personally regarding their involvement in this new rebellion. We shall then advance on the rebel host. Meanwhile, you shall bear my commission of array back to the Earl of Warwick, and give him my blessing to raise troops.”

   The knights left for Coventry with their message, and the next day Edward pushed on to Huntingdon. His army, ten thousand horse and foot, marched briskly to the rhythm of pipe and drum, while behind them creaked the baggage wagons, carrying food and supplies and thirteen heavy cannon.

   He arrived at Huntingdon to find Sir Geoffrey Malvern waiting for him with the prisoners. It did Edward’s heart good to see Malvern, who was as bluff and charming as ever, and seemed little the worse for his brief imprisonment at Bridgwater.

   Edward’s mood darkened when Welles and Dymmock were brought before him. Both men had suffered some rough treatment in the Tower, and looked drawn and haggard. Welles, considerably the elder of the two, could barely stand under the weight of his chains. 

   They were interrogated separately, but even under threat of torture confessed to knowing no more about the rebellion than they had already. Neither man admitted to any knowledge of Warwick and Clarence’s involvement.

    “You will write a letter to your son, my lord,” Edward said to Lord Welles, “demanding that he disbands his army and submits to my mercy.”

   Welles gaped stupidly at the king. His gaolers at the Tower had deprived him of sleep, and his eyes were red-rimmed and heavy. “What if my son refuses, lord king?” he asked hoarsely.

   “Then you and Dymmock will die.”

   Welles duly wrote the letter, though his hand shook as it held the quill, and it was dispatched to the rebels at Stamford. The royal army marched on to Fotheringay, where word reached Edward that the rebels were marching on Leicester. Less than an hour later, another galloper arrived with news that Warwick and Clarence had left Coventry and were heading in the same direction.

   Edward had been half-expecting this, and managed to control his wrath and indignation. “They have betrayed me again,” he said quietly. “How my brother must hate me. Warwick lives for his own interest, but George…this has gone beyond mere ambition. I must have wronged him, somehow.”

   “Never fear, Majesty,” said Malvern in his usual upbeat manner, “perhaps they are advancing to attack the rebels, not join them.”

   Edward smiled thinly.
Dear Sir Geoffrey
, he thought,
as naive as he is brave.

   The king had reason to sweat. Once again, he was trapped between the forces of Warwick and Clarence and a rebel army. There was also a third host to be reckoned with: the Yorkshire reinforcements under Lord Scrope of Bolton were racing south after failing to meet up with the Lincolnshire men at Stamford.

   Edward’s instinctive reaction to any crisis was to meet it head-on. Encouraged by his brother Gloucester, who shared his bullish nature, he pressed on towards Stamford to intercept the rebels before they could reach Leicester.

   “God smiles on the bold,” he declared to his captains, as much to reassure himself than anything.

   At last his fortunes seemed to turn. It took time for Lord Welles’ letter to reach his son, but when it did Sir Robert appeared to panic. He turned his army around and scampered back towards Stamford.

   “That is something,” remarked Edward when he heard, “but not enough to save his father’s life. He must send his men home, and give himself up.”

   His fears regarding Warwick and Clarence were allayed when he received assurances from them that they were advancing to support him against the rebels. Whatever their true motives, they had halted at Leicester and showed no signs of moving.

   This gave Edward vital time to deal with the army to the north. His scouts reported that Sir Robert had drawn up his men at Empingham, five miles west of Stamford. They numbered some thirty thousand, far less than originally reported, but still three times the number of Edward’s.

   He cared nothing for the odds. Being on campaign had made Edward young again, burning away the excess flesh that was the result of his taste for sloth and debauchery. He was once again the matchless soldier and knight-errant who had won a kingdom through skill, daring and force of arms.

   “Forward banners, in the name of God and Saint George!” he cried, to the thunderous acclaim of his knights.

   The royal army advanced with all speed to the reckoning.

16.

Empingham

Thirty thousand men stood drawn up in ragged lines on the fields west of Stamford, while a steadily growing cloud of dust to the east heralded the advance of the royal army. It was a mild day in early spring, and a gentle breeze ruffled the banners and pennons and streamers of the various rebel lords and knights. 

   Richard stood in the middle of the front line, just behind Sir Robert Welles himself. To stiffen the hearts of his men, Welles had chosen to fight on foot, and ordered all the horses to be taken to the rear.

   “There will be no retreat from here,” he assured his men, “we have taken enough backward steps. Let the King shift us if he can.”

   It was a brave speech, but Richard had listened to too many brave speeches in his life to be convinced. He had looked into Sir Robert’s eyes, and saw nothing but uncertainty. King Edward’s threat to execute Lord Welles and Sir Thomas Dymmock if the rebel army failed to disperse had punched a great hole in Sir Robert’s morale. He was attempting to hide it, but Richard suspected that he lacked the heart and guts for a fight.

   To do him credit, he had made no attempt to comply with the King’s demands. The rebels had come too far, and they all feared Edward’s vengeance if they laid down their arms. A rumour had swept through the army that he meant to hold a bloody assize in Lincolnshire once the crisis was passed, and that the royal justices would try and condemn great numbers of men, even those already pardoned for joining with Robin of Redesdale.

   Even though there was no option but to fight, Richard had sensed the enthusiasm draining out of the rebels with every step of the retreat to Stamford. Sir Robert’s decision to make a stand at Empingham had briefly raised flagging spirits, but there was far too much disorder and poor discipline in the ranks.

   Richard stood among the solid core of dismounted knights and their retainers in the centre. These were professional enough, but the billmen and archers on the flanks were proving difficult to control. Sir Robert’s marshals tried to bully them into some sort of order with oaths and blows, to limited effect. Many of the men had tried to supplement their courage with excess ale. The drink made them sullen and belligerent and disinclined to take orders.

   “Damn these scarecrow villains,” muttered William Maker, one of the three men that had followed Richard to the muster at Stamford, “do we mean to fight the King’s army with these? They are the scrapings of the gutter, not soldiers.”

   “Quiet,” snapped Richard. He had also punished the ale last night, seeking to drown his doubts and regrets. His head felt like it had been kicked by a horse.

   The enemy was getting closer. Their banners were visible now, silhouetted against the skyline to the east. The faint sound of drums drifted on the breeze.

   Richard noted grimly that they were coming on in good order. Let no man say that the usurper was a bad soldier.    

   He glanced at Sir Robert, whose ghastly pallor and look of panicky indecision brought back bad memories of Richard’s first battle at Blore Heath. There the Lancastrian army had been led, if that was the right word, by Lord Audley. Audley had dithered and made a series of catastrophic decisions that led to his own death and handed victory to the Yorkists.

   Richard shifted his grip on his pole-axe. All the battles he had survived passed before his eyes. Blore Heath, Wakefield, Saint Albans, Towton, Hedgley Moor, Hexham, Edgecote…one pitiless slaughter after another, as the rulers of England piled up great mountains of skulls in their bid for power.

   These memories of blood and death faded, to be replaced by the faces of his family. His father, that big man whose gentle laugh and warm embrace were the only real joys Richard could remember. Then his mother, her countenance severe and disappointed, as it generally was when she looked at him. His sister Mary, the very spit of Dame Elizabeth, his treacherous brother Martin – what a cruel twist of the knife, to have a brother who cared nothing for their father’s memory – his brother-in-law Henry, whose blood had watered the snow at Towton. Henry’s daughter, little Elizabeth, who carried her father’s soul in her eyes.