Revenge (19 page)

York drew himself up. “Though right may, for a time, rest and be put to silence,” he replied, “yet it does not rot, or perish.”

He was rather pleased with that, and went on with renewed confidence. “We give you leave to study our claim and, in due course of time, let us know your minds in full.”

The Lords did just that, and the following day respectfully beseeched King Henry for his views on the matter. The King, who had remained withdrawn in his chambers, asked them to draw up a list of objections to York’s claim. Sweating a little with exertion, the Lords visited the justices, the sergeants-at-law, and the royal attorneys, and asked these worthies for their opinion.

All the while York sat and brooded in his lodgings, drinking far too much and spurning the company of everyone, even his sons. The justices, the sergeants-at-law and the royal attorneys, after much deliberation and poring over yellowing statutes and genealogies, replied that it was not within their power to determine the right of York’s claim. It was a fearsomely high matter, they said, above the law and beyond all their learning and experience, and must be decided by Parliament – or, failing that, God Almighty.

“You must appreciate the difficulty, Your Grace,” said the Archbishop when he came to visit York. “We have all sworn oaths of allegiance to King Henry, who has been the accepted monarch for the past thirty-eight years. His reign has not been an unrivalled paean to glory, but one cannot lightly cast aside an oath made before God.”

“His reign has been a bloody catastrophe,” York snarled. “All of France is lost, save Calais, and England has fallen into lawless ruin. Only I can rectify matters, and can only do that if invested with powers of kingship.”

“One might argue that you helped to cause the ruin,” Bourchier retorted, “by raising arms against His Majesty on so many occasions and encouraging local magnates to disregard the law and engage in private feuds, spoil and robbery. One might add, you also swore the oath of allegiance.”

York was taken aback. He had never suspected Thomas Bourchier, a smooth and devious character, of possessing so much courage.

“One argues and adds a deal too much,” he said, pointing meaningfully at the Archbishop, “and one might be best advised to remember the fate of those who defied me in the past.”

Bourchier was not intimidated. “Such as the old Duke of Somerset, butchered by the axes of your retainers at St Albans?” he replied. “Or the Duke of Buckingham, that good man who ever strove for peace and harmony in the realm, slaughtered like a pig outside the King’s tent at Northampton, along with many other loyal peers? Or perhaps Your Grace refers to Lord Scales, murdered as he fled for sanctuary at Westminster Abbey?  I have kept track of all these deaths, my lord, and pondered them much, and prayed for the soul of every one.”

“All those men chose to come against me in arms,” York said quietly, “and died as a consequence of their folly. As for the oath of allegiance, yes, I swore it, but an oath is only valid if it confirms the truth. The truth is that I am the rightful king, not my cousin, and you and the Lords ought to be helping me take what is mine.”

The Archbishop looked hard at him. “Extraordinary,” he said, with a weary little shake of his head. “My lord, I have nothing more to say to you.”

A great deal more was said in the following days, much of it by Thomas Thorpe, the Speaker of the Commons. Thorpe had a taste for rhetoric and indulged it in fearless criticism of York’s claim to the throne. He labelled the Duke a wanton traitor, usurper, oath-breaker, and a viper in England’s fair bosom, among other things.

Enraged by the man’s defiance, and the approval with which the Commons and many of the Lords greeted it, York arranged for Thorpe to be falsely accused of trespass and theft, convicted, and hurled into Fleet Prison.

“That ought to keep the little turd quiet for a while,” York confided happily to March. “If not, let him rail at the prison walls.”

Faced with this demonstration of York’s power, the Lords became more circumspect, though the Commons briefly protested at Thorpe’s treatment. At last, after much deliberation and argument, Parliament reluctantly allowed that York did indeed have a better claim to the throne than King Henry.

For a moment the Duke was within touching distance of the crown, but then a vote was held. By a majority of just five the Lords decided that a change of dynasty was impermissible.

Having dug themselves into a hole, they hastily scrambled for a compromise. At the end of October it was publicly announced that the King and the Duke of York were reconciled, and the next day a solemn procession was held in St Paul’s Cathedral. The King, wearing his crown and his most sainted expression, led a long line of dukes, earls and lords through the nave, all wearing fixed smiles in a symbol of concord. None smiled more than York, though inwardly he was fuming.

Parliament had resolved that King Henry should remain on the throne for as long as he lived, but that the Prince of Wales should be disinherited, and York proclaimed heir apparent. York was privately informed in no uncertain terms, by the Archbishop and the Lord Chief Justice, that it was the best he could hope for.

“I am ten years older than Henry!” York protested. “And in all likelihood will die before him. What use is the crown to a dead man?”

“Your Grace’s age is beyond our power to rectify,” Bourchier said with heavy sarcasm, “unless you wish Parliament to pass an Act declaring you to be twenty-five again.”

“And imprison anyone who denies it,” glowered Fortescue, who had been lobbying unsuccessfully for the release of Thorpe.

“Both of you would be well advised to show me more respect,” York warned. “Henry may hold his throne for the rest of his days, but I hold the power. I want a message sent to the Queen, commanding her to bring her son to London.”

“Only the King can send such a command,” said Bourchier, “though we can request him to do so.”

“Couch it in whatever terms you please, but my will shall be done,” York said firmly. “And if the bitch refuses to come, she and her whelp are to be denounced as rebels.”

The two old men had no choice but to agree. They slunk out of his chamber, grim-faced but compliant.

York sat back in his chair. Despite everything, he felt satisfied. He ruled England, albeit in the name of the King, and the throne was destined to be his. Henry was a sick man, and who knew how long he might live?

Or be allowed to live.

York pushed the thought away. There was no need for such measures. Not yet.

17.

Staffordshire

Greystones House, known locally as the Red Barn, stood a little way from the rough forest road. A strong, compact place, protected by a limestone wall and a dry ditch, it was the principal residence of the Huntleys.

The surrounding forest had been cleared half a bow-shot’s length of the walls, and the land cultivated into pleasant gardens, with fruit-trees and pot-herbs and even a little summerhouse for the ladies to sit in. The gardens were mostly bare and desolate now, for it was late October, and the summerhouse was abandoned for a season.

It was a dull, overcast morning, with a light rain whispering among the trees. James Bolton squirmed forward on his belly, ducking his head under some overhanging brambles, and stopped at the edge of the woods to peer at the house.

“They must come out soon,” he muttered, wincing as rain-water dripped from the brambles and fell down the back of his cassock. “I can’t lie here all day catching cold.”

“The boy said the wedding was planned for today at noon,” said his companion, a big man with thinning grey hair. “They will have to start out within the hour, if they mean to reach Stafford in time.”

The big man was Hodson. He had survived the sack of Heydon Court almost two months previously, though not without hurt: his face was disfigured by a ragged white scar, the legacy of a sword-slash.

Both men remained where they were for another hour, enduring the chill and discomfort as they waited for the gates of Greystones House to open. James badly needed a drink, but that was nothing new. The craving for drink was always with him, especially since he had given it up.

Hodson had gone in search of James after his escape from Heydon Court, and eventually found the chaplain at the mill outside Cromford, in bed with the late miller’s wife.

The grim story Hodson had to tell, of the fall of Heydon Court, the slaughter of most of the servants and the capture of James’ mother, sister and brother, had shamed the chaplain into tumbling out of bed and swearing a solemn vow to avenge his kin and give up alcohol forever.

From there, Hodson had taken him into the woods, to a hidden cave where the few survivors of Dame Anne’s household had taken refuge. There were but five of them left – Hodson, two of the men-at-arms and Alice, one of the kitchen maids. James sat on the sandy floor just inside the cave, nursing a pounding headache and a terrible sense of guilt, as they told him what had befallen at Heydon Court.

“Tanner is dead,” Hodson told him, “and Meg, and John Clegg, and all the rest. Huntley’s soldiers were fighting mad, and cared not who they slew, men, women or children.”

“Not Martin, please God?” said James, looking at him in horror. “Not my little brother?”

Piers, one of the surviving men-at-arms, spoke up. “No,” he said bitterly. “He is a Bolton, after all, and too valuable to die. But the falconer, John Swift, had a son. You remember little Adam? He was about Martin’s age. They made his father watch while they cut his throat.”

James made the sign of the cross. He could feel his gorge rising, but for once it had nothing to do with drink.

“God help us,” he muttered, uncomfortably aware of the four pairs of eyes scrutinising him. “What of the rest of my family?”

“I saw your sister carried out of the hall, alive but insensible,” said Hodson. “Your brother was also carried away, screaming like the devil, his hands and feet tied to a spear staff.”

“I saw the old witch taken,” added Alice. “Alive, more is the pity.”

It took a second for James to realise she was referring to his mother. “Don’t speak of your mistress like that,” he said.

“To hell with her,” Alice spat. “She was a tyrant, always taking her birch rod to the servants, and threatening to turn us out into the cold if we didn’t do as she said. Huntley may feed her to his dogs if he likes. I’ll not shed a tear.”

Anger boiled in the pit of James’ stomach, but his instincts warned him to be careful. There was a hostile atmosphere in the cave, and much of the hostility was directed at him.

“Hodson says he found you lying with the old miller’s wife,” said Alan, the third and youngest of the men-at-arms, “and she told him you had been with her for days, taking your pleasure when you should have been helping us to defend Heydon Court. Is that true?”

James reddened and groped for an answer. “It’s true,” jeered Alice, “you can see it in his face. He’s just a dirty, lecherous old priest.”

Some flicker of long-buried pride brought James to his feet, rather too quickly.

“Curb your filthy tongue,” he yelled, clutching at the wall for support as black spots danced in front of his eyes. “It’s no wonder my mother took a birch rod to you. Listen, all of you. I am sorry I was not there to help, but I believe God deliberately kept me away.”

“God and Joan Miller’s tits,” sneered Alice. James ignored her. “God ensured I was not there, don’t you see,” he explained, “to give me an opportunity to atone for past sins. If I rescue my family, my soul shall be wiped clean.”

It sounded convincing to James, though the others looked doubtful. Biblical inspiration struck him. “We shall live in the wild, like outlaws,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “and fall upon the Philistines whenever we are able. Bow and arrow, sling and spear shall be our weapons, and the humble greenwood shall be our home.”

His ringing words were followed by a heavy silence, broken only by the trickle of running water somewhere in the depths of the cave.

Eventually Hodson spoke. “We are all outlawed,” he said, “and, speaking for myself, I have nowhere else to go but the forest. If I was ten years younger, I could take up service in some garrison or other, but they wouldn’t have me now.”

He turned to the others. “All of us lost friends at Heydon Court. I have a debt to repay for John Tanner’s death. Piers, Alan, what about you?”

The two young men exchanged doubtful glances. “Edward Bolton was a good man,” Alan said grudgingly, “and took me in when I might have been imprisoned for poaching. I have no great liking for the rest of the family, but for the sake of his memory I will stay, and help to make things right.”

Piers raised his bandaged left hand. “Some bastard wearing Ramage livery took two of my fingers,” he said, “so I also have a debt to repay.”

All eyes turned to Alice. “They murdered my friends, and Meg, who was like a mother to me,” she said sullenly, and pointed at James, “but I’ll not take orders from this drunken fool.”

James looked shrewdly at Hodson. “I am not a soldier,” he said, “but you were. Will you be our captain?”

Hodson was startled. “I have always been a follower, never a leader,” he stammered.

“Nor was Gideon, until God instructed him to meet the people of Midian and Amalek in battle. God speaks through me now. He has elected you as our chief.”