Trinity (18 page)

‘What if York is intent on peace though?’ John said. ‘I have come a long way from home, father. I’ve left my family and estates for this and I’ve sworn to see the Percy dogs cut down. I won’t sit still while York and Lancaster are reconciled, with new oaths and toasts drunk to their health.’

‘Be careful, John,’ Warwick said softly. His brother was a mere knight and had brought no more than six retainers with him. The armies of his elder brother and father gave him more authority than he could claim on his own, though his grievance was greater. Perhaps because of that, John Neville shot his brother a look of anger before their father spoke again.

‘We have two thousand Neville men to York’s one. It is my intention to make an example of the enemies of our house and I will not be put off that path by anyone. Is that clear enough for you, John? Let York worry about the Duke of Somerset whispering in the king’s ear. Our concern is with the Percy lords. If they ride north with the king, they’ll not survive our meeting. My oath on that.’

Salisbury held out his hand and both his sons gripped it in turn, sealing the agreement between them.

‘We three are Neville men,’ Salisbury said proudly. ‘There are some who have yet to learn what it means to cross that name, but they will, I promise you both. They’ll learn, even if King Henry himself stands in our way.’

He clapped first Richard, then John on the shoulders, reaching out to them while their horses stamped and nipped at one another.

‘Now beat the bushes and find some game for your old father to stick a spear through. We should bring something back to Ludlow. It’ll be good practice for you both. If we are to flush out the Percys, we’ll need to march soon, to await the king on his path north.’

Margaret stood before her husband, wiping an oily cloth over his shoulder pauldrons so that they would shine in the spring sunlight. They were alone, though armed men and horses were all around the Palace of Westminster, gathering in hundreds of small groups. King Henry’s half-brother, Jasper Tudor, had come in the week before, bringing news of an army encamped in the north-west, around the castle of Ludlow. That new information had lent an urgency to the proceedings that had been missing before. There were still many senior men who refused to believe York or Salisbury would raise banners against the king, but the procession had begun to resemble an army making ready to move, with more and more lords choosing their best men to stand with them.

‘You will keep our son safe in Windsor, Margaret,’ Henry said, looking down at her, ‘no matter what lies ahead.’

‘I would prefer you to wait another month, two. You grow stronger every day that passes, and there is still the garrison at Calais. If you called them back, they would surely draw the teeth from the Plantagenet, whatever he plans.’

Henry chuckled, shaking his head.

‘And leave the Calais gates open? I have lost enough of France without stripping my last fortress there. I have two thousand men, Margaret – and I am the king of England, protected by God and the law. Please, we have talked and talked. I will take the Great North Road to Leicester. I will ride and be seen – and those lords of mine who still waver will be abashed. The Duke of Norfolk has not responded to me. Exeter is still claiming illness. God’s
wounds
, I need to be seen, Margaret, just as you’ve said so many times. When I have revealed the shining ranks of all those who stand with me, then I will declare York and Salisbury traitors. I will put the mark of Cain on their heads and they will find what support remains to them vanishing like frost in summer.’

Margaret touched the cloth to his brow, wiping away a smudge.

‘I do not like to hear you curse, Henry. You did not before, that I remember.’

‘I was a different man,’ Henry said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

She looked up into his eyes and saw the fear there, almost hidden.

‘I was
drowned
, Margaret, fat with water and unable to cry out. I would not wish such a fate on any man, no matter what his sins.’

‘You are stronger now,’ Margaret said. ‘You must not talk of it.’

‘I am frightened to,’ he murmured. ‘I feel it in me, this
weakness
, as if I have been allowed to stand in the sun for just a time, knowing I must go back. It is like fighting the sea, Margaret, too vast and green and cold. I build … walls and still it rushes in, clutching at me.’

Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and Margaret wiped his skin dry. Her husband shuddered, opening his eyes once more and forcing a smile.

‘But I will not let it through, I promise you. I will build a fortress to hold it back. Now, if you have finished polishing me like a trumpet, I should go and mount. I have a long road ahead before I rest tonight.’ He reached down suddenly and kissed her, feeling her lips cold under his. ‘There! That will keep me warm,’ he said, smiling. ‘Make little Edward safe, Margaret. England will be his to rule when I am gone. But she is
mine
today.’

York led the column from Ludlow, riding with his son Edward at the head of a procession of trudging men who talked and laughed as they took minor paths and then reached the great Roman road of Ermine Street, still laid with flat stones as it ran north and south, almost the length of the country. On such a surface, they could match the pace of the old legions, making twenty miles a day with ease. Three thousand men ate far more than they could find at roadside inns, though they stripped those bare to the walls as they reached them. York had spent fortunes from his treasury on the supply train following behind the marching men and horses, so that whenever they stopped, a host of retainers would light fires and set stews and salted meat to bubbling for the appetites of weary men.

They reached Royston first, then Ware the following day, where York halted the column to rest. Salisbury and his sons rode into the village to find rooms, while York stayed for a time to oversee the camp, giving praise to his captains and observing their spirits.

The three Neville men made a tight group as they gave their horses to a stable lad and headed inside to the only tavern.

‘How soon before we reach the king’s Progress?’ John Neville asked his father. ‘Do we even know the route they will take?’

‘We’re not out hunting pheasant,’ Salisbury replied. ‘When he leaves London, the king will come up the Great North Road, with all his lords and judges. He will not be hard to find. The only question is what York will do when he has no other choice but to bear arms against the king.’

‘You think it is so certain?’ Warwick asked. The taproom of the tavern was empty, but he still kept his voice low.

‘I do not think those around the king will ever let York or me come back into the fold. They fear him – and they fear us. The Percys will not allow peace, lad. The old man is scenting the wind at this very moment, straining for his last chance to break the Nevilles. And I welcome it. Peace is nothing in the face of that.’

‘I do not think my lord York is ready for battle,’ Warwick said. ‘He seems in earnest, to me, with all his talk of healing wounds.’

Salisbury shook his head, sipping a tankard of ale and smacking his lips in appreciation.

‘Nonetheless,’ he said, softly.

The green fields and farms of Kilburn stretched all around the royal camp. Beyond the city of London, King Henry had ordered a halt and courts to be set up for three hours across noon. His two dozen judges had heard a number of cases in that time, freeing six men who had languished in prison for months, fining more than thirty and ordering the execution of eleven more. Justice might have taken an age to reach the town of Kilburn, but once it had arrived, it was swift and sure. King Henry left scaffolds being erected behind him, passing cheering crowds come out to catch a glimpse of the royal party dispensing justice.

The mood among the two thousand was that of a celebration, with feats of arms and riding performed for the king’s pleasure by those who hoped for some recognition. Thomas, Lord Egremont, was the victor of two demonstration bouts, giving such buffets to those who stood against him that they had to be tied to their horses later on, or fall. While the trials went on, the local towns provided ale, bread and meat, for which they were paid in silver.

The first day of the Progress had gone well and King Henry’s mood was light as he ordered his heralds to turn off the road and seek lodgings around the town of Watford for the night. By the time darkness fell, he was settled in a local manor house, enjoying the company of his half-brother Jasper Tudor as well as Earl Percy and Egremont. Henry found he had drunk a little too much of good local mead and, though his doctors hovered within call, he felt strong, pleased enough at the prospect of another dozen days like the first before he reached Leicester.

He retired late, knowing he would feel it the following morning, as the Royal Progress moved on to St Albans. He would pause and pray in the abbey there, at the oldest Christian shrine in the country. He had been told Abbot Whethamstede had been one of those who came to Windsor to poke and prod him while he had been senseless. It gave Henry some small pleasure to consider greeting the abbot on his feet, a man who had known him only on his back. Before he slept, he imagined taking the abbot’s hand in a strong grip and seeing him kneel to the king of England and his most loyal lords.

After the king and most of his guests had retired to their beds, Earl Percy remained, with his son Thomas and the younger Tudor still at table. It was oddly difficult to find a private place for a quiet conversation and the earl hoped the king’s Welsh half-brother would leave. Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, was dulled with drink, but in that state where an hour can pass almost unnoticed. Earl Percy had to stifle yawns every few moments, too aware that at sixty-three he could not rise restored after just a few hours of sleep. He toyed with his cup of wine at the long table, watching the earl throwing grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth. The young Welshman was tilting his head up to the point where he was in some danger of falling back off his chair.

‘I knew your mother well, Pembroke,’ Earl Percy said suddenly. ‘She was a great lady and a fine wife to old King Henry. I was her steward at her coronation, did you know that?’

Jasper Tudor righted his chair with elaborate care before replying. ‘I did, my lord. Though I was just a child when she passed. I cannot say I knew her, though I wish I could.’

Earl Percy grunted.

‘Your father though, I don’t know him at all. A Welsh soldier is all I ever heard of Owen Tudor, though he married a queen and has two earls for his sons! Rising like bread, in just a generation.’

Jasper Tudor was short, with thick black curls that he had allowed to grow long. The Welshman sat straighter as Earl Percy addressed him, sensing something hostile in the old man’s talk, so that he played with his knife, scoring the wood.

‘He lives still, a fine man,’ he said, closing one eye as he squinted up the table.

‘And a lucky one, for a Welshman,’ Earl Percy said, emptying his cup. ‘Now here you are, his son, in the presence of the king of England and his court.’

‘My brother called and I came, to represent my branch,’ Jasper replied warily. ‘And I brought a hundred of those Welsh archers that have made such a place for themselves in England these last years.’ He held up a hand as if to forestall an interruption. ‘Please, my lord, no thanks are necessary. Though I see too few bowmen in this grand Progress. I know my lads will make their mark if they are called upon.’

‘I just hope you have them on a tight rein,’ Earl Percy said lightly, staring up at the rafters. ‘I have known some men of Wales to be little more than savages. It is a dark country and there are some shameless fellows who call them thieves, though I would never count myself among that number.’

‘I am relieved to hear that, my lord,’ Jasper said. For those who knew him, his voice had grown dangerously soft, a murmur before a storm. ‘We say the same thing about the English in the north.’

‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’ Earl Percy said. ‘Still, I am glad to have such as you close to the king. Who knows what baubles might yet drop into your hands from his? There is no meanness in this King Henry. It has long been a generous line.’

Jasper Tudor rose suddenly, swaying as he glared blearily down the length of the table.

‘I think I’ve had enough for one sitting. I will find my bed. Goodnight, my lord Northumberland, Baron Egremont.’ He stumbled out of the room to the stairs, where he could be heard crashing about for some time.

Earl Percy smiled to himself, looking over to his son, almost as stupefied by drink as the young Welshman.

‘I hope the servants count the spoons tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The Welsh are like jackdaws, you know, every one of them.’

Thomas smiled at that, his eyes half-closed and his head drooping.

‘You should seek out your own bed, Thomas. This whole procession is too much like a spring fair. You young men should be sharp, with Nevilles armed for war. Do you understand? God, lad, how much have you drunk tonight?’

‘I understand,’ Thomas complained without opening his eyes.

‘I wonder. I do not trust a Neville when I can see him, never mind when he is off somewhere else, doing God knows what. Go on, sleep it off and rise sharp to protect your king – and your father. Goodnight. Trunning will be up at dawn, I guarantee you that. I’ll have him throw a bucket over you if you sleep in. Go. God be with you.’

With a groan, Thomas rose to his feet, gripping the table to steady himself.

‘G’night,’ he said, staggering as he left the table’s support behind.

Alone, Earl Percy used his knife to cut slivers of cheese from a square wooden platter. With no one left to observe him, his features settled into their habitual frown. The king’s Great Progress had started well enough, but he could not enjoy Henry’s return to health while Salisbury and his sons were out there in the wilds with York. The king’s recovery had been the answer to prayers for the Percy family. The Nevilles had lost the foundations of their strength, but Earl Percy knew they would be all the more dangerous for that. With a grimace, he forced himself to drink another cup of wine, feeling his senses swim. Without it, sleep would never come.