Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (12 page)

Lords Somerset and Percy talked together, perfectly audible from where Margaret sat and worked the threads of a tapestry square. She had no eye for the work, and the result would probably have to be unpicked, but it allowed her to sit and listen, until she was forgotten and could learn all she desired to hear. With her husband’s return, such subtleties had become necessary as her lords remembered her role once again.

Margaret smiled at the thought. Men worried about their place, more than she had ever known as a child. They needed to know who stood above them and who they could safely tread on below. She did not think women gave so much time to calculations of that sort. She smirked for a moment. Women trod on all their sisters, without special favour. It was safest that way. Each one sensed the dangerous potential in all the others, as men rarely could.

The walls of the Mercer guildhall of York were hung, predictably enough, with fine tapestries, each one surely representing the work of years. Looking at them, Margaret understood the desire to plan for the future, to begin an enterprise that could not be finished in a season. It was the very essence of civilization and order, she thought with a trace of smugness. Through her efforts and her patience, her most puissant enemies had been brought low. It had taken years, but then the fine strong cloth she had made would hold its colour for a thousand more, long after they were all dust.

She had raged at first, when London turned away her husband. She had not known then how such an event would sow dragon’s teeth of
outrage
the length and breadth of the country. The city of York’s gates had been held open for her lords, with men riding out to the king hours before their arrival to make it clear the royal party would not be refused.

In part, that had been Derry Brewer’s doing, Margaret knew. Derry understood the story that needed to be told and he’d had it whispered in every inn and every guildhouse, from Portsmouth to Carlisle. The queen had found a valiant few, risking her life to bring Scots down from their mountain fastnesses. From rough northern towns,
she had gathered a band of brave men to save the king – and she had brought Henry out of the clutches of traitors, tearing him from their grasp while sending their enemies running. At the last, she had been betrayed by London itself, a rogue city of merchants and whores, a city of madness, burning with fever. A city that needed a hot iron laid against its flesh.

The days of despair had changed to wonder as the numbers of her ragged army began to swell and grow. Each town they passed brought marching men to join them, responding to a king dishonoured. The news spread to every hamlet and village and town and city, driven by Derry Brewer’s messengers and the king’s purse. A thousand taverns had all their ale bought by the king’s coin while some young serjeant told the tale and then led them out the following morning, ready to defend King Henry.

Margaret watched the men, seeing how those with authority stayed still, while others moved from cluster to cluster. As she drank in their movements, she began to wonder if it was not the other way around, especially as Derry Brewer was like a bee dipping his beak into a dozen blossoms, then starting again at the beginning. She did not know if bees had beaks. If they had, they would have resembled Earl Percy, she thought. His great nose was so prominent that it was hard to recall anything else about him once he had turned away. She saw the Percy earl with a fellow from Ireland whose name she did not know and … Courtenay, Earl of Devon. There were so many new captains and knights and senior lords, as if they had awaited only the right cause, or the chance to win.

She shook her head, touched by a heat of irritation. They had not come to her aid when the house of York had
her husband in chains, when her cause had been hopeless. No, these were practical men. She understood that even as she despised them. She could still be grateful that, in their cold assessment, her side had become the place to stand.

Her hands ached from working the threads and she let them lie on her lap, drawn tight from the fiddly work, so that she had to use one to smooth out the palm of the other. The Mercer guildhall was a grand place, but there must have been three hundred there, swirling from group to group, eating and drinking and laughing their fill. Lords Dacre, Welles, Clifford, Roos, Courtenay; their captains, who threw back their heads to laugh but were still wolves, with names like Moleyns, Hungerford, Willoughby. She shook her head, closing her eyes. She could not learn them all; it was impossible. What mattered was that they had come to her cause. What mattered was that they had brought thousands of men, more than she had ever seen before. Her fifteen thousand had been engulfed by a great sea of retainers and knights and shields and war bands and archers and … She smiled dreamily to herself. York was a new London. No, a new Rome, if Warwick and Edward Plantagenet were to be broken on the armies around it.

She thought then of the blackened faces she had gone to see at Micklegate Bar. The heads of Salisbury and York had not cured well in the rain and bitter cold. Some local guard had pasted tar on to them to make them proof against the elements. Margaret could see them clearly in her mind’s eye. Richard of York, Richard of Salisbury. York’s paper crown was long gone, though some dribbles of tar still held scraps of it. She rubbed a spot on her temple, feeling an ache develop and groaning softly as flashing lights appeared on the edges of her vision. Such an ache
had become more common in recent years. There was no cure for the pain but darkness and sleep. She rose to her feet and was instantly the focus of the room as servants scurried to aid her and all the men turned to see what had caught the attention of the rest.

Margaret blushed under that scrutiny, pleased that she still could, though she looked at them with one eye half closed against the pain. Her husband was watching her with something like affection, she saw. She curtsied to him and left them behind to their plans, knowing she would hear it all in time. It did not matter if they had come out of loyalty to her or to her husband. It did not matter if they saw her as a French nuisance who hardly understood how things were meant to work. She cared nothing for that. They had not come when she had needed them most – and she had won even so, saving her husband and taking the heads of two powerful enemies. She smiled at that thought. It was a never-ending source of delight to think of it.

There was work still to be done, of a certainty. Edward of York and all the Nevilles would have to be burned out. The wounds ran deep across the country, with resentments and hatreds for the years of war. Yet the blame was firmly on York and Warwick – and no matter how many men followed them, or the wealth they had gathered, they could not stand against the entire country. Once those houses had been broken and attainted, once their castles had been burned and their lines cut for ever, Margaret would be free to watch her son grow and her husband rest at prayer. Perhaps she would even be blessed with other children, before it was too late for her.

The servants closed the door as she left and behind it
she heard the conversations begin again. Margaret reached down and picked up the hem of her dress just enough to walk without fear of catching a foot in the cloth. She raised her head at the same time, though one eye seemed fastened shut, too sensitive to the winter light.

Outside, the clouds were rolling across the city of York, the sky a faded grey, like a sheet of lead, or a pale horse.

Dawn was hours off in the darkness of a winter’s morning. Candles had been lit by scurrying servants, reaching up with long poles. Those gathered in Westminster Hall could see their own breath on the frozen air.

Edward of York stood in a belted robe of dark blue and gold over his armour, his long sword on his hip in its scabbard and tied with its own wide belt. As Warwick watched, the young man scratched vigorously at something biting him in his beard. There was mud still on his boots, Warwick noted. He wondered if Edward had seen the stone chantry of King Henry V in the Abbey across the road. The battle king, the ‘Hammer of the Gauls’, as it said on his tomb, had his likeness carved in robes – the effigy of a saint, not the leader of a war band.

Edward loomed tall above Bishop George Neville, his hair standing up wild without a helmet to press it down. The young Duke of York could see all the way across the vast hall, lit by so many hundreds of candles that the entire echoing space gleamed gold.

The King’s Bench was a simple marble seat, dragged into place at the High Table, as wide as two men lying down. Edward stood behind the massive wooden surface, leaning slightly forward so that his gauntlets rested on black oak and his shoulders hunched like a raptor’s wings.

The news was spreading fast. Members of Parliament had already taken their accustomed places along the walls,
but lawyers and sheriffs and merchants and every man of authority who had been woken in those small hours were pressing in through the great doors. Shivering crowds could be glimpsed beyond them, all jostling for a view. Westminster Hall was able to take thousands before it was full, and men and women from the city entered in shuffling steps, seeking out any spot where they could stand in silence to wait and watch. The whisper was already running the length of London, carried on racing feet and in the throats of bakers and children and monks and anyone else awake at that hour.

Edward lowered himself on to the bench, resting his hands on the table. Bishop George Neville passed him a golden sceptre, taken from the Tower treasury. A sigh sounded in that cold from all the people gathered. It had not been a lie. The house of York was claiming the crown while King Henry of Lancaster was still alive.

The table was made for a man of Edward’s size, Warwick realized. It had been the High Table for hundreds of years, second only in importance to the Coronation Chair in the Abbey. That would come later. The Hall of Westminster was for the declaration. Edward’s smile showed that he was satisfied. Warwick could not deny he looked the part on the dais above them all, the man lit gold under a ceiling lost in shadows.

Standing in full robes, with a crosier in his right hand, Bishop Neville rested his left hand on Edward’s shoulder. The message was clear: the Church would stand with York. As the young duke and heir bowed his head, the bishop spoke his blessing, calling on the saints to guide them all to wisdom. When it was done, everyone present made the sign of the cross and looked up.

The night before, the bishop had explained the oath that needed to be made. Edward had been impatient with the details, though he understood well enough. He needed men to fight for him, in huge numbers. Only a king of England could summon the country. Only a king could empty every shire village of its archers and young men.

‘My lords, gentlemen,’ Edward began. ‘I am Edward Plantagenet, Earl of March, Duke of York. By the Grace of God, I am the vray and just heir to England, Wales, France and Ireland, all. I claim my right, in this place, at this High Table. I claim it through blood, from my father, Richard, Duke of York, who was descended from King Edward the First and through him to William of Normandy. And from my mother’s line, who was herself descended from Lionel, Duke of Clarence, second son of King Edward the Third and senior to John of Gaunt. I hold these two strands as golden – and together, higher than any other claim on this seat and this throne and this land. I deny the right of Henry of Lancaster to my inheritance. Therefore, by God’s Grace, I claim the realm. I am King Edward the Fourth of that name. There is no greater line – and I acknowledge no other man before me.’

He paused and Warwick saw sweat trickling down his face. With his size, and that great dark beard, it was all too easy to forget that Edward had lost his father barely two months before and was still eighteen years old. Yet his voice had rung out with force and confidence, astonishingly loud in the empty spaces of Westminster Hall.

Warwick glanced over his shoulder to see the source of the whispering and shuffling he had ignored all the time Edward had been speaking. He froze then, aware that a sea of faces stared back, thousand upon thousand, filling
every row and space, standing in every window alcove, on every ledge. Men and women held children above their heads to see, or sat sleepy boys and girls on their shoulders, yawning. Most of them were smiling and their eyes reflected candle flames as they strained to hear every word and see it all.

Next to Warwick stood the slight figure of Edward’s steward, Hugh Poucher. Warwick grinned to see the man’s mouth hanging open at what he had witnessed. He leaned in a little closer.

‘I take it your master did not share his plans with you, Poucher?’

The Lincolnshire man shook his head slowly, his mouth closing as he gathered himself. To Warwick’s surprise, Poucher knuckled a tear with one hand and sniffed, shaking his head.

‘No, but I will
not
let him down, my lord.’

Warwick blinked, more aware than ever of the responsibility he had undertaken by helping to raise Edward to the crown. There would still have to be a formal coronation in Westminster Abbey, of course, an event too important to throw away in the small hours of a winter morning. When that day came, the city would come to a halt and Edward would be toasted in every room, on every street, on the deck of every ship passing along the Thames and out to sea. Bells would ring in each church across the land.

‘I am King Edward Plantagenet,’ Warwick heard again. His gaze snapped up, suddenly afraid that everything they had planned would be ruined by the huge oaf who could not keep his tongue still.

‘You will ask how there can be two kings in England,’
Edward said, as the crowd fell silent once again, hanging on his words. ‘I tell you there cannot. There is only one. I summon all men of honour, as your king, to tear
down
the banners of the usurper, Lancaster. To stand with me as I make war on my enemy.’

Warwick’s eyes widened as Edward stood and threw back his cloak. He reached out and one of his men passed over a jingling steel helmet with sweeping curtains of mail rings and a gold circlet cut into the brow. Warwick raised his hand and took a quick breath, suddenly afraid that Edward would crown himself and make a mockery of the Church. Such a thing could lead to them all being cast out and damned.

Whatever Edward intended, Bishop Neville was quicker. He took the helmet from Edward’s outstretched fingers. The young man barely had time to look back before it was jammed on to his head, with the cloth of metal rings draping his shoulders.

The audience roared its approval as he turned once more to face them, understanding that they were witnessing an event they would always remember. With the birth of a child and the day they were wed, it would be with them until it was just a gleam of gold, as the weakness of death pressed them down. They had seen a man made king and they had seen a war begun.

They cheered Edward to the rafters of the hammerbeam roof, their voices echoing back and forth, multiplied until they were legion. In response, the ancient bronze bell of Westminster began to peal, the sound taken up and echoed by the Abbey and then by other churches, until the whole city echoed with the clashing sounds, over and over and over, as people woke for the day and the sun showed at last on the horizon.

Warwick watched King Edward being congratulated by a dozen powerful men, his own dear uncle Fauconberg among them. He recalled a tale he had heard of William the Conqueror’s coronation. The Conqueror’s men were viking by blood, but they spoke French and Norse and knew no English. The English spoke no word of French. Both sides had roared out their congratulations, growing louder and angrier with every passing moment as they strove to outdo one another. The king’s guards outside the Abbey had thought fighting had begun and set fire to local houses. Apparently, they had believed a bank of smoke would interrupt whatever plan was afoot. In terror and confusion, riots had broken out all over London.

Warwick sniffed the air. No smoke, though he knew there would be bloodshed soon. Edward wanted it, more than any other man. The young warrior had no fear of taking the field. All he needed was enough men to walk with him.

Warwick saw his brother George making his way through the laughing, cheering crowd.

‘Well done, Brother,’ he called over the noise, having to shout.

The bishop nodded, applauding with the rest.

‘I hope we have judged this right, Richard. I believe I have broken my oath in blessing another man as king.’

Warwick studied his younger brother’s face, recognizing the real pain in him. As a bishop of the Church, it was no small concern. For him to have spoken it aloud hinted at an ocean of grief hidden beneath his twisted smile and distant gaze.

‘George, I
made
you do this,’ Warwick said, leaning in so close that his lips touched the bishop’s ear. ‘The responsibility, the error, is mine not yours.’

His brother leaned back and shook his head.

‘You cannot take my sins on your shoulders. I have broken my word and I will confess and do penance.’ He saw the concern in Warwick and sought to ease it, forcing himself to smile. ‘It is true I am a bishop, but you know, I was a Neville first.’ Even as Warwick chuckled, his brother’s face grew cold. ‘And, Brother, I am our father’s son, just as you are. I would see his murderers shown a quick road to their death and damnation.’

York was the second city of England, with high walls and thriving trade that had created a class of merchants all vying to build bigger houses and employ more armed men to protect their fortunes. Every day that passed increased the size of the army around the city, though the leper hospital outside the walls was given a wide berth, with ropes and stakes keeping a path clear and the softly rotting inhabitants well away from healthy soldiers.

Derry Brewer sank the last of a pint of ale, gasping and wiping his lips up and down a bit of a beard he was growing. It was coming in grey, which bothered him. On the other hand, he admitted to being fifty-three years old, give or take a year. His knees hurt and his arms were too short to hold whatever he wanted to read, but he was still in a very good mood.

The only other man in the room was chained to a wall, though but lightly. The manacles were not spiked or tongued in iron to chafe him or tear his flesh. As brother to Warwick and a noblemen in his own right, Lord John Neville of Montagu was too valuable to bruise. Derry cleaned his nails with a tiny knife, kept especially sharp. He could feel Warwick’s younger brother eyeing him when
ever he thought the spymaster had his attention elsewhere. Not that there was much to stare at in the little cell below the guildhall in York. The only light came from a slot at street level, opening on to some private yard where passers-by could not look in. It was a quiet place, where no one could hear or see.

Derry peered into the jug of ale, seeing the best part of a pint still in it. John Neville’s lips were cracked and sore from licking at them, his whole mouth a shade of raw pink. The ale had been meant for him, but Derry had been feeling thirsty. Ale drunk was never ale wasted, everyone knew that.

‘Are you awake, my lord? The guards said you were shouting again, demanding your right to a priest or some such. The ransom has not been paid, John, not yet. Until it has been, we’ll keep you alive and in reasonable comfort, as might be expected for a man of your station. Or I could hand this knife to our queen and leave her alone to tickle your parts with it, what do you think? She’d take that wrinkled purse of yours to keep her pins in, quick as you like. I don’t think she’d refuse, do you?’

The prisoner straightened in his chains and gazed at Derry Brewer with all the confidence of one whose body had never betrayed him. Faced with that noble scorn, Derry briefly considered hobbling him. One tendon in the ankle – just one, sawn through – and the Neville family would remember the name of Derry Brewer until the Day of Judgement.

‘Or would you like to declare for King Henry, perhaps?’ he asked the young Neville lord. ‘God is with
Lancaster
, son; that much is obvious! Why, I remember when we cut your dear father’s head off. Now, I said then …’

He paused as Montagu lunged at him, his lips cracking as he snarled and heaved at his chains. The young man strained as if he thought he could rip them right out of the wall, but under Derry’s cool gaze, he gave up and took a step back, flicking the chains like a snake coiling.

‘Your father
was
a fool, John,’ Derry said. ‘He cared so much about his feud with Earl Percy that he very nearly brought down the king.’

‘If he had, York would be on the throne,’ Montagu said suddenly. ‘You’re a
paid
man, Brewer, for all your airs. You don’t truly understand honour, or care. I wonder if you even know loyalty to those who press coins into your hand. Who are you, Brewer? A servant?’

‘No more,’ Brewer said, his eyes strangely bright.

‘What? Are you saying “No, I am more than a servant”? Or that you are not more than a servant? Or … no longer a servant? Are these the sort of foolish games you play? If I had spit, I’d spit on them and you.’

The lord turned away and Derry stepped into the range of his chains. Montagu spun round, but Derry brought a cudgel down on his head, finding the right spot so that the young man slumped into the filthy straw. Derry looked down on him, panting and then surprised that he was breathing hard after so little exertion. He missed being young and strong and certain in everything he did.