Margaret of Anjou (25 page)

The cold brook waters drained the blood from all the bodies in it, piled so high in places that a man might almost have walked across on broken corpses. Salisbury’s men never crossed the brook, contenting themselves with the slaughter of all those who stood on their side and ignoring the rest.

When the fighting ceased, Salisbury came right down to the water’s edge. The sun was beginning to set and he looked across the river to the rising hill and wondered idly if the cannons were still on the ridge. There was no sign of any of the Gallants there. They had all fled.

He cracked stiffness from his neck, though he had not struck a single blow during the fighting. Perhaps a thousand of his men had been killed, a loss he could not afford, no matter what victory they had won for him. Three times as many, or more, lay dead around the brook and in it. His men were already gathering great armfuls of the silver swan badges, laughing at the loot and yelling to their mates to come and collect more.

He called his captains away from their search, fixing them with a stern expression as he decided to ignore the men’s bulging pouches.

“Get my carts across this damned river before dark. We’ll scout the Gallants’ camp, but we must press on.” He knew they expected some word of congratulation, but he had lost a third of his army, men he and York needed desperately. He felt no joy of it.

“My lord, will you give us time to see to the wounded?” one of his captains asked. Salisbury glared at him, angry at the decisions he was being forced to make.

“I see no Percys here, no Somersets. There is another army in the field and I must reach Ludlow. If they can walk, they must follow us at a slower pace. Leave a good knife with those who will not last the night. We have lost half a day here, gentlemen. We cannot lose more. Be ready to march.”

His captains nodded, losing their grins and taking up the responsibilities of their rank once more. One by one they turned away, looking over the slaughterhouse they had made of the heath and the river that would run red for days afterward.

—

M
ARGARET
ROSE
to her feet from where she had crouched perfectly still for so long. It was hours since she had settled into that spot, a hill to the east of the heath that gave her a good view of Audley’s forces and then the army of Salisbury as it crossed the land. She was white with horror at what she had witnessed, a vision of cruelty and violence that continued to flash pictures into her mind in the twilight, making her want to brush them away like flies landing on her skin. In her imagination that morning, she had expected neat formations facing each other, not the chaos and screaming madness of men crushed and drowning in a river, hacked down and shot from close range by laughing, jeering enemies. She shook her head, trying in vain to clear it of the memories. Those men had sworn an oath to her and worn her swan. They had come to that place in trust and martial spirit, ready to fight for the king and queen against foul traitors. As she dragged her eyes away, she could still see the dark stain in the waters as the brook leached their life’s blood. Margaret shuddered, feeling small and cold herself with the twilight closing in. She did not know what happened after a battle, whether Salisbury would stop to bury the bodies, or whether he would press on to Ludlow. There were still dozens of his horsemen milling around on the hillsides and she was struck by a sudden fear that one of them might see her and give chase.

Her throat dried and she fluttered her hands at the thought. Two men waited for her at the bottom of the hill. She had not let them climb the slope to watch with her, knowing that to be spotted by anyone was to invite disaster. They had seemed strong and fearsome warriors that morning, but as she climbed down, they looked as frail as any of the other men who had died that day.

Margaret mounted without a word, not trusting herself to speak. Behind, she heard some horn blowing once again and she shrank in the saddle, the growing shadows making it feel as if she was already being run down by huntsmen. Leaving the heath behind, they rode a mile and she looked back more than once.

In the first village they passed, Margaret saw the forge light of a smith, still working at his trade, though the hour was late. Her mind was on the threat of pursuit and the delight Salisbury would take in her capture. She almost rode on and then reined in sharply at the sound of hoof nails being hammered into place.

“Fetch out the smith,” she said, relieved to hear her croaking voice was firmer than she had expected.

The man who came out at her order was wiping his hands on an oily cloth. He took in the fine cloak of the beauty staring down at him and chose to bow deeply.

“Do you need a shoe, mistress?” he called. He reached out to pat the neck of her horse and froze as one of her guards drew a sword, a sound the man knew very well.

“I need them all taken off—and reversed on the hooves,” Margaret said.

Her mother had complained of poachers doing the same thing when she was a little girl in Saumur. Anyone riding after them would find a set of tracks heading the wrong way and take another path. It was a simple enough trick, though the smith stared in surprise, glancing off at the road behind them. Margaret could see him guessing they had come from the battle fought that day, confusion and a little fear written clearly on his soot-dark face.

“Pay the man for the work, a half noble,” Margaret said.

The smith’s eyes widened and he snatched the gold coin out of the air as it was flicked to him, patting it away carefully. Margaret dismounted and the smith kept his silence, lifting each hoof and yanking out the nails with quick neatness, dropping the bent ones into a pouch to be straightened and replacing them with a dozen more, hammered in hard. He did not dawdle, made nervous by the glances thrown down the road behind the small group. In just a short time, all three of the horses had been shod in reverse and they mounted again. Margaret hesitated, unable to resist a word before she left the man behind forever.

“You have served the royal house well, Master Smith,” she said. “In the king’s name, I ask that no one else hears what you did tonight.”

The smith was very aware of the armed men watching him. He backed away, nodding and holding his hands up until he was safely in the smithy, warmed by the forge.

Margaret dug in her heels. Night had come while she waited, but the moon was up and it was a good road and a clear sky. She kicked hard for Kenilworth, safety, and home.

S
alisbury’s men limped into Ludlow, footsore and weary beyond belief. The earl they followed had forced them on for fifty miles, driven by the terrible fear that he would find York’s castle under attack. They’d arrived barely able to stand, never mind fight, but there was no sign of a besieging army. Salisbury passed on his thanks to his captains, allowing them to make camp alongside the four thousand already there.

York’s soldiers watched as Salisbury’s starving men clustered around cooking pots, or simply lay down on the open grass to sleep. The newcomers had no carts with them after the forced march. As the moon appeared low in the sky, hundreds of York’s sergeants walked over to the huddled groups of weary men, passing out spare blankets and sharing water, ale, and meat, whatever they had, in exchange for news of the battle.

The arrival of Salisbury’s army brought a heightening of tension across the great camp around Ludlow. New lines of wooden spikes were hammered into place and many of the men blessed the river that ran round the west and south of the castle, forcing any enemy to come from the east.

Salisbury’s carts arrived the following day, allowing his men to set up tents and give back some of what they had been lent. The walking wounded from the heath came in a day after that, staggering along and collapsing with relief at the sight of acres of tents around the York stronghold. Fully eight hundred men were missing from the rolls called, while many others were little more than a drain on the healers and their supplies.

On the evening of the third day, York’s scouts rode in with the news they’d all known would come. The King’s Gallants had been sighted twelve miles off. Every man of the six thousand at Ludlow ate a good meal, repaired any broken kit, and sharpened his weapons. Those who had horses tended to them, while the host of archers took up position on the flanks of the castle. Salisbury’s carts were made into a barricade once more, blocking the southern approach from Ludford, across the bridge.

As night fell, York’s army settled down into disturbed sleep, jarred from it by single cries and bad dreams before they pressed their eyes shut once again and tried to lose the dark hours. Ludlow was the stronghold, but the river protected their backs as much as the stone walls behind them. Every soldier knew that, at the last, they would be allowed to run inside the walls for protection—but if it came to that, the battle would be lost and the castle would surely fall. They were the shield and the sword, not Ludlow’s battlements. The guard shift changed at midnight and, by then, a light frost made the camp sparkle. The guards stamped and blew on their hands, watching for the dawn.

The moon vanished to the south, its brightness fading quickly. As the sky eased from starlight and blackness to the first shades of gray, Salisbury and Warwick climbed the stairs to the highest point to stare east. York and Edward of March were already there, talking in low voices as Neville father and son reached the top step.

“Come here and you will see them,” York said, beckoning.

Salisbury squinted into the gloom, spotting tiny points of light in the distance, shifting and darting back and forth.

“How many?” Salisbury asked, as much a question to the younger men with sharp eyes as York himself.

“However many you left alive at the heath—and the king’s forces,” York replied.

He had railed and shouted on the first evening, when he heard how many Salisbury had allowed to escape. His friend had endured the tirade, knowing it sprang from fear. It was true Salisbury might have tracked and butchered the Queen’s Gallants streaming away from him. He might equally have been overwhelmed by them as they regrouped and fought back. He had chosen instead to follow through with the original plan and reinforce Ludlow. There was no point in wishing for different choices to have been made.

Far away, the line of torches grew and grew, spreading across the horizon until the four men could only stare in grim silence. York knew the land to the east better than anyone and he was most affected, rubbing the back of his scalp and shaking his head.

“It might be a trick, still,” he said. “Men far spaced perhaps to carry the torches, making them seem a greater host than they truly are.”

He did not believe it and none of the others replied. The sun would reveal the extent of the king’s army facing Ludlow.

“Ludlow has never been breached,” York said after a time. “These walls will stand long after us all, no matter how many tanners and squires they have found to march against it this year.”

The sky behind the approaching army was brightening slowly, clear and pale. York stiffened as he began to make out the dark shapes of cannon being trundled along with the host. Once he knew to look for them, he peered further, leaning out over the stones until Salisbury wanted to take his arm before he fell. A dozen heavy serpentines had been dragged toward Ludlow, each one capable of smashing an iron ball through a full mile of clear air. Against castle walls, even those of Ludlow, they would wreak terrible destruction.

“They’ve come to break us,” Salisbury murmured.

He sensed York’s anger at his words, but the light before sunrise was strong enough for them all to see the extent of the king’s forces. They could barely make out the noble banners in the soft gray, but the numbers were appalling, at least twice the men they had gathered in the name of York.

“I see the Percy colors,” Edward said, pointing. “Lord Gray is there. Exeter. Buckingham. Somerset on the left, do you see? Is that the banner of the Cliffords?”

“It is,” York replied. “A great pack of curs and fatherless boys, it seems. I should have killed Buckingham at St. Albans, when he was laid out with his face split in two. Look for the king’s lion pennants. Or the queen’s swan. That wolf bitch will be among them, I am certain.”

At the distance of half a mile, the royal army halted, blowing horns to wake the dead, or at least any Yorkist soldiers who might somehow have slept through the clash and rumble of their approach. The ranks of torches were extinguished as full dawn came and York and Salisbury could only stare in dismay as dozens of armored knights rode up and down the first rank, carrying the streaming banners of all the houses they represented, led by three gold lions on red. It was a display meant to intimidate and shock—and it did its work well.

In the front rank, the cannon teams raised the immense black iron barrels and placed wooden blocks under them. York clenched his right hand as he saw braziers lit and men scurrying with bags of corned black powder. Right across the king’s army, thin streams of smoke rose into the clear air. The men on the battlements heard the order, a single voice that was answered with a crashing thunder and such an explosion of smoke that half the royal force vanished behind it.

No iron balls soared across the distance between them. The flame and smoke had been a warning and a demonstration of power. No one who saw it was left in any doubt that the next volley would tear men apart and hammer castle walls. Yet it did not come. Instead, a single herald rode forward beyond the rest, accompanied by six men. Two of them blew horns while the rest carried royal banners, the lions fluttering. They reached the edge of York’s forces and the herald declaimed at the top of his voice. Few of his words reached the battlements, though the four men above craned to hear. York watched sourly as the herald finished his speech and continued out of sight, heading into the castle. He would be allowed to enter, to deliver his message to the master of Ludlow.

York turned to the earls standing with him, his eyes resting at last on the son who towered above them all in his armor. Like the rest of them, York was pale, his confidence shattered. He knew the king’s herald would be brought up to him and he spoke quickly before they were no longer alone.

“I had not thought to see Henry himself come against me,” he said. “However they have done it, I do not know if the men will stand, not now.” The anguish felt by that small group on the battlements would be flooding through every soldier below. It was one thing to raise arms against another lord, especially those York accused of being traitors and manipulators of the king and queen. It was quite another to stand against the King of England himself in the field. They could all see the pavilion of flags and banners being raised in the center of the line.

“Half of them are farmers’ sons,” Edward said into the silence. “They can be routed, just as they ran at Blore Heath. Let Warwick and me take our two thousand against the flank. We’ll roll them up, while the rest assault the center. Our men are veterans, sir. They are worth two of those men or more, each one.” Even as he spoke, the Earl of March could sense the despair in Salisbury and his father. He looked to Warwick for support, but even he shook his head.

Salisbury glanced to the top of the steps, gauging whether he could yet be overheard.

“My father suffered many raids into his lands,” he said suddenly, “all led by the same Scots laird. Ralph Neville was a cautious man, but on one occasion he found himself outnumbered, caught in the open. He knew if he stood and fought, he would have lost it all.”

The three men with him were listening as Salisbury peered again at the steps.

“He sent his serving men forward, three big lads with two chests of silver, leaving them alone in a meadow while the clansmen crept up like the wolves they are. Perhaps it was their unexpected good fortune that made them wary, or simply because they had already learned the earl was a cunning enemy. The laird’s men expected a trap and by the time they realized there was none, my father had retreated to a stronghold and was out of their reach.”

“What of the silver and his men?” Edward asked.

Salisbury shrugged.

“They were all taken. The men were killed and the silver spirited away to the laird’s longhouse. They drank themselves to a stupor at the wealth they had won and they were still asleep when my father’s men fell on them from the darkness. He had brought more than enough for the work and they’d followed the tracks of clansmen carrying the heavy chests, right through field and forest. My father’s men killed the laird in his home and slaughtered his bondsmen before they could rise and defend themselves. In the morning, they took back their chests and returned across the border. It was a memory my father cherished in his final years. It kept him warm in the cold, he said, to remember their surprise.”

A clatter of footsteps made Salisbury raise a hand in warning to them all, snapping his mouth shut on whatever else he might have added. The king’s herald was dressed in pink and blue, a jay among crows on that roof. He was panting and he bowed elaborately, acknowledging the three earls and York last of all.

“My lords, I speak for his Royal Majesty, King Henry of England, Ireland, and France, Protector and Defender of the Realm, Duke of Lancaster and Cornwall, God’s blessing on his name.” The herald paused, swallowing uncomfortably under the cold gazes of the men he addressed. “My lords, I am to say that the king will pardon all those who have taken up arms against him. He will show mercy to any man who accepts his pardon without delay.” He had to summon his nerve to go on, a sheen of sweat appearing along his brow. “Excepting only the Duke of York, the Earl of Salisbury, and the Earl of Warwick. Those men are declared traitors and must be handed over to the royal forces and the king’s own authorities.”

“What of the Earl of March?” Edward demanded, honestly affronted that he had not been mentioned.

The herald looked nervously at the enormous man, shaking his head.

“I was not told to say that name, my lord. I . . . cannot . . .”

“Go, sir,” York said suddenly. “I will send my answer at noon, with my own man. Will you return to the king’s side?”

“Yes, my lord. His Highness awaits what answer you would have him hear.”

“King Henry stands then, in the host? He is present on the field?”

“I saw him with these eyes, my lord. I swear it. I will await your answer, if you wish.”

“No,” York replied, dismissing him with a sharp gesture. “Return to your master.”

The herald bowed again and vanished, escorted down through the castle by York’s staff.

Salisbury could see York readying himself to snap furious orders. As the herald left, he spoke quickly.

“My father’s tale is the key to this lock. We cannot stand today. We do not have the men or the walls to resist such an army.”

“You’d have me
run
?” York demanded, rounding on his oldest friend.

“Has the king not offered a pardon?” Salisbury replied instantly. The herald had aided him, unknowing. Yet Salisbury still had to find words that would placate York’s prickly honor. “Tell your captains to wait for your return. Tell them the king is just a puppet of the Percys, or a pawn of his French queen.” He held up his hand and spoke more loudly as York began to argue. “Tell them you will come back in the spring and that a leader chooses the place he will stand—and does not let his enemies choose it for him! God knows, the king is not popular. He has hardly left Kenilworth in—how long now? No parliaments called for three years, no order in the land. There is little love for him—more for you. Let your men and mine have their pardons, Richard! Let them return to their homes, knowing that this is just a breath between blows, before we break this royal rabble into pieces, lord by lord, man by man!”