Revenge (22 page)

Mary had never set eyes on Stanley before, and would have been happy never to do so again. His narrow, fleshless face had a cold and humourless look about it. Her impression was of a man who had ordered and witnessed too many hangings, and consequently ceased to value human life.

She guessed that Stanley had indeed meant to arrest them at the Seven Sleepers. Their refusal to come out of the forest had scotched that plan, forcing him to bargain instead. The ignominy of being out-thought by a pack of miscreants was the probable cause of his irritation.

Whatever the truth, Stanley was clearly an angry man. Mary thought it wise to be done with him as quickly as possible.

James ordered the Huntleys to be brought forth, and six of his men rode out of the forest with the prisoners walking between them. Father and son had been stripped of their weapons and harness, and their wrists tied behind their backs. They looked ridiculous in their drawers and under-shirts, Huntley the Elder especially. Both were crimson with fury at the indignity of being paraded like common criminals. Mary derived great pleasure from their humiliation, and had to restrain an urge to jeer and clap her hands.

The Sheriff said nothing, though his jaw tightened and his face drained of any remaining colour. He nodded curtly at his lancers, who rode forward to take custody of the prisoners.

“This concludes our business,” he said. He turned to go, but James leaned forward and seized his bridle.

“Not quite,” he said, looking the Sheriff straight in the eye. “You have your friends back, safe and unharmed. In return I want the outlawry of my kin revoked and our lands and property restored to us.”

For a moment Mary thought Stanley would strike him. “The Huntleys are no friends of mine,” he snapped, “and why should I re-instate your family? In the past few months your family have committed many trespasses, including murder, trespass, larceny and abduction. Enough to condemn you all many times over.”

Dame Anne intervened. “My son Richard brought his woes on himself,” she said, “but the Huntleys had no right to besiege my house, break down my walls and murder my servants. If we are to be prosecuted, he and his son should also stand trial.”

“You see these men?” added James, indicating the archers behind him. “These were our tenants. There are many more like them secreted in the forest. They would rather risk the gallows than have Huntley or Ramage for a landlord. If you insist on punishing us, my lord Sheriff, expect many more disturbances in your county. There will be no peace, until one faction or the other is drowned in blood.”

The Sheriff looked thoughtful, and his long fingers drummed out a rhythm on the pommel of his saddle. Huntley the Elder looked at him imploringly, but in vain.

The Huntleys have failed him
, thought Mary,
and so now he cuts them adrift.

“Only Richard Bolton and Henry of Sedgley have been formally outlawed,” Stanley said slowly. “Those penalties stand and will not be revoked. However, in the interests of the peace, I will make no more outlaws today. All the men in your company are pardoned, and the house and lands at Heydon Court shall be restored to you. The Huntleys shall pay reparation for any damage and for the endowment of a chantry for the souls of your servants. The other Bolton manors of Longton and Gresham shall remain in the hands of my officers, as surety for your good behaviour.”

Mary thought that was the best that could be hoped for. The Huntleys started to protest, but one glance from the Sheriff’s pale eyes stilled their voices.

“We are satisfied,” said Dame Anne, though she looked anything but, “and from this time I vow that my family shall keep the peace, provided we are left alone to enjoy it.”

That was the end of the matter. The Sheriff went back to Stafford with his degraded allies, and the Boltons returned to Heydon Court. James disbanded his men, who went back to their villages with the promise that John Huntley and Edmund Ramage would never lord it over them.

One of the Sheriff’s officers accompanied the Boltons, with a writ from his master ordering his men at Heydon Court to vacate the house and deliver it back to its former owners.

Mary was suspicious of their good fortune. “Stanley would never make so many concessions,” she said to her mother during the journey home, “unless his arm was being twisted.”

“There is a danger of it being broken,” replied Dame Anne. She took a sheet of vellum from her saddlebag and handed it to her daughter.

“This letter was brought to Heydon Court by a royal esquire,” she said. “He gave it to Stanley’s steward, who sent it on to Stafford.”

Mary took the letter and unfolded it. Her heart leaped as she recognised the spidery handwriting of her brother Richard:

“
To Dame Anne Bolton, at Heydon Court, be this delivered.

Dear mother, I greet you right well, letting you know that I am safe and well and at Exeter in the company of my worshipful lord, the Duke of Somerset. The Duke lately sailed from France with all his remaining power. After landing he marched to his stronghold at Corfe, where he met with the Earl of Devon.

Mother, I would have you know that your son, whom you last beheld condemned and degraded for my actions in defending the honour of our family, is now Sir Richard Bolton. The Duke made me a knight for my recent services. It was I that brought about the meeting at Corfe, to my great distress and pain that I shall not tell you of herein.

It grieves me to tell you that Nicholas Mauley is dead, slain in the course of his duty. I shall tell you more of him when next we meet.

Also know that we have gathered some five or six thousand men to fight for the Queen. Her Majesty has passed from Wales to Scotland and raised her banner in the north. A great army of Scotsmen is said to have accompanied her into Northumberland and Yorkshire, where their numbers were strengthened by the retinues of many English lords. Soon they shall march south, to fight for the liberation of the King and the destruction of the false traitors in London who hold him prisoner.

We shall march to join them, and together our combined array shall crush the power of York and restore peace and stability to our realm. Pray for me, mother, for I shall be a while yet from your side. When you see me again it shall be as a conquering Achilles, rich in favour and spoil.

Your loving son, Richard.”

Mary was amazed by the content of the letter. It seemed that all the menfolk in her family, who had seemed so worthless and inadequate, were intent on proving her wrong.

“Sir Richard Bolton,” she mused, handing the letter back to her mother, “it has a grand ring. He does not mention my husband.”

“Henry will be with the Queen in the north,” Dame Anne assured her, “and both your brother and your husband will come back safe, I am sure of it. God will protect them.”

That was small comfort. God had been rather capricious of late, but Mary smiled and agreed.

19.

Baynard’s Castle, London, 4
th
December 1460

York studied the map of England rolled out on the table in his council chamber, using his dagger to move about the lead counters that represented his friends and enemies. Around the table were his closest allies – the Earl of Salisbury, the Earl of Warwick, and his sons the Earls of March and Rutland.

“Our scouts tell me that Somerset and Devon have marched from the south-west,” he said, pushing the relevant pair of counters, “with an unknown number of soldiers. They are moving slowly, and have not yet reached Bath.”

His eye roved over the map until it reached the East Riding of Yorkshire. “The bitch of Anjou is at Hull,” he added, “with her son and a few thousand Scottish hirelings.”

“She will summon all her adherents,” said the Earl of Salisbury. “We should expect a great many to respond. The Duke of Exeter, the Earl of Northumberland, Lord Clifford, Lord Roos, the Baron of Greystock, and others. Lancaster is strongest in the north.”

“I know,” York said irritably, “but we have our adherents there too. She cannot hope to scrape together more a few thousand men.”

Warwick tapped South-West Wales with his finger. “There is Pembroke to reckon with as well,” he said. “The Queen enlisted his support months ago. He has raised the dragon banner, and could assemble a great host of Welshmen against Lord Herbert.”

“The bastard Tudor,” said York, “is the least of my concerns. We can send a force to deal with any uprising in Wales. The real dragon is stirring in the north, and must be slain quickly.”

He thought for a moment, tapping his thigh with the hilt of his dagger. “I will go north myself,” he declared, “not only to deal with the Lancastrians, but to protect my tenants in Yorkshire. Margaret has already agreed to hand over Berwick to the Scots. The woman is capable of anything.”

“Berwick,” murmured Salisbury, shaking his grey locks. “After all the blood and gold Englishmen have spilled to keep the place, she hands it over in return for the services of a few mercenaries. Why did God choose to afflict us with this virago?”

“God had nothing to do with it, Father,” said Warwick. “It was her uncle, King Charles, in connivance with her father. Together they foisted her on England.”

“What’s done is done,” snapped York. “We would all like to journey back in time and set the past to rights. We have to deal with matters as they stand.”

He leaned over the table and barked out orders, pointing at portions of the map. “Salisbury, you and Rutland will accompany me north. Warwick, you will stay in London and guard the King. Edward, you will march west and smash Pembroke. When that is done, march north to rendezvous with me in Yorkshire.”

“Yes, father,” said March. His handsome, clean-shaven features glowed with fierce pride. This would be his first independent command.

Two days later, on the ninth of December, York marched north from London at the head of five thousand men. He judged this a sufficient number to deal with whatever force Margaret was mustering in the north.

The weather was oppressively cold and wet, but his spirits were lifted by a sermon delivered at the opening of Parliament by one of Warwick’s brothers, the Bishop of Exeter. The Bishop had chosen for his text, appropriately enough, carefully edited lines from the prophet Joel.

“Blow the trumpet on Zion!” he thundered to the assembled Lords and Commons, his voice echoing like a horn-blast in the rafters of Westminster Hall. “Sound the alarm on the holy mountain! Let all the inhabitants of the land shake with fear, for destruction is near. It comes in the form of a huge and powerful army. Like fire they will devour everything in their path. How awful that day will be! For they come as destruction from the Divine Destroyer…”

The Bishop’s stirring words fell like the wrath of God on the terrified heads of his congregation. Frightened into compliance by his fiery imagery and threats of imminent destruction, Parliament hurriedly granted York a loan of five hundred marks to finance the coming campaign. He was also permitted to seize the royal arsenal in the Tower, and take several cannon.

“A fine sermon,” York remarked to Salisbury as they rode through Ware. “Just the stuff to wake up those craven bastards in Parliament, and make them realise how much they need my protection. The bitch of Anjou would pluck out their entrails for agreeing to disinherit her son.”

“She may yet pluck out ours,” said a worried-looking Salisbury. “We still don’t know how much support she commands. I suggest we advance with caution.”

“And allow her Scotsmen and Borderers to plunder my tenants in Yorkshire?” York barked. “Never! I’ll not give her cause to boast that I am too scared to come and face her. No, the best course is a quick march north. We shall destroy her in the field, then swing south to fall on Somerset and link up with my son’s host coming up from Wales. Done!”

Salisbury looked doubtful. York’s confidence was a brittle shield. Before leaving London he had privately made out his will.

As his army entered the Midlands, marching via the Great North Road past Grantham and Newark, reports filtered back of atrocities being committed by the Lancastrians. As York suspected, the Queen had made little effort to restrain her wild northerners, and allowed them to sack the homes of York and Salisbury’s tenants in West Yorkshire.

“She takes pleasure in it, the slut,” York growled when he heard the news. “It’s a deliberate insult. One she will live to rue.”

The appalling winter weather and difficult state of the roads, roughened by neglect and churned up by heavy rains, caused the already wavering morale of his soldiers to dip, as did the rumours of the size and savagery of the enemy host. Matters worsened when the artillery train got bogged down in the winter mud and had to be sent back to London.

To counter this loss, the army was reinforced by a steady trickle of recruits and volunteers during the march. By the time they approached Nottingham, their number had swelled to over six thousand men. The sight buoyed York’s mood, but not for long – especially when his scouts returned with sobering information on the size of the Lancastrian army gathering at Pontefract.

“Fifteen thousand men,” York informed Salisbury and Rutland during a hurried council of war, “including the retinues of Northumberland, Clifford, Somerset and Devon.”

Salisbury, normally so diffident in the presence of the Duke, went white. “Somerset and Devon are supposed to be miles to the south,” he shouted. “How in God’s name did they move so quickly?”