Revenge (35 page)

   John smiled. “Oh, yes. The King wants to see you, Sir Geoffrey. As soon as possible.”

   That evening Geoffrey knelt before King Edward IV in the royal apartments at Westminster and bowed his head. The royal hand, plump and pale and adorned with heavy gold rings, was presented for him to kiss. He dutifully applied his lips.

   “Rise, Malvern,” commanded the royal voice.

   Geoffrey rose and adopted a suitably humble posture, hands folded, head held at a submissive angle. He risked a glance at his sovereign.

   This was his first private audience with King Edward for almost six months. He was surprised at how much Edward had changed. The muscular royal frame had started to acquire a veneer of smooth fat, while there were dark smudges under the King’s eyes and a distinct puffiness to his flat Plantagenet features.

   Edward’s taste for debauched living was well-known. Geoffrey suspected there was more to the King’s deterioration than that. London was polluted with spies and double agents. Dark rumours circulated of the exiled Queen, Margaret of Anjou, assembling a horde of foreign mercenaries in France.

   Geoffrey was aware of other stories swirling about the streets and taverns of the city: dangerous mutterings about the King’s paternity, doubts cast on whether he was indeed a legitimate son of the late Duke of York.

   At such a time, with portents of disaster looming, the King had chosen to summon Geoffrey into his presence. Geoffrey usually enjoyed any notice of royal favour, but not now. He had been making secret plans to flee the capital for the peace and safety of his estates in the Norfolk countryside. The royal summons had ruined all that.

   “Sir Geoffrey,” Edward went on in his slow, deep voice, “you have always been a loyal man. A man worthy of my trust.”

   Geoffrey felt a twinge in his guts, as he always did whenever any prospect of danger threatened. Edward had something dreadful in mind for him. All his years spent volunteering for safe diplomatic work and avoiding military service were suddenly in jeopardy.

   He was alone with the King (save for two halberdiers by the door, but they didn’t count) in a small antechamber in the private royal apartments at Westminster. In his heightened state of nervousness, Geoffrey was suddenly aware of the beads of melting wax on the fat white candles of the candelabra, and how the wind rustled the frieze hung on the wall behind Edward’s chair. There was wine on the King’s breath, a faint but definite whiff of spices and almonds.

   “I have always endeavoured to be, Majesty,” he replied, suppressing an urge to wring his hands. He lived in terror of his innate cowardice being exposed, and wondered if there was a hint of mockery in Edward’s countenance.

   “You will have heard,” said Edward, “that I am at odds with my brother Clarence, and the Earl of Warwick.”

   Geoffrey thought carefully before replying, though all England knew how strained relations were between the three men. These were deep waters. “I have heard stories to that effect, sire.”

   “They are not without foundation. The Earl feels that I have pushed him away from my inner circle, and humiliated him in our negotiations with France and Burgundy. He disapproved of my marriage. He resents my refusal to allow his daughter to marry Clarence. He feels slighted.”

   There was a note of sarcasm in the King’s voice. For a moment Geoffrey thought that Edward was about to confide in him, and felt distinctly queasy. He was happy to bask in royal favour and cream off the benefits that resulted from it, but a sensible distance had to be maintained. The friendship of princes, in Geoffrey’s informed opinion, was too dangerous to be desired.  

   “Tell me, Sir Geoffrey,” asked Edward, “where do the pillars of Warwick’s power lie?”

   The smooth machinery of Geoffrey’s political brain clicked into life. “In the north, and in Calais,” he replied promptly, “Yorkshire in particular is a virtual Nevill fiefdom, but the family influence also extends into Cumberland, Westmoreland and County Durham. The Earl retains a great many men on his northern estates.”

   “Enough to threaten me, would you say?”

   Geoffrey hesitated, reluctant to say anything negative about so great a magnate as the Earl of Warwick. Word of it might reach the ears of Warwick’s supporters.

   The King was waiting for an answer. “Possibly, sire,” he muttered, “I do not know their exact strength, only that the earl’s power is greatest in those regions.”

   Edward’s little mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “You are a devious one,” he said, “I have work for you. The north is always troublesome, but news has reached me of fresh disturbances up there. Some man calling himself Robin of Holderness has raised the men of that region in armed revolt. A protest against tax. It seems that the Hospital of St Leonard in York has been greedy, and tried to extract too much grain from the people.”

   “Nothing the local justices cannot deal with, surely?” Geoffrey said. He felt uncomfortable. All this talk of armed revolt was unsettling him.

   “Our agents inform us that Robin of Redesdale, whoever he is, has mustered quite a host. Even now they are marching on York. Therefore I have decided to postpone my expedition to France and march north in person to crush the rebels.”

   “Forgive me, sire,” Geoffrey said carefully, “but what has this to do with the Earl of Warwick?”

   “Maybe nothing,” replied Edward, toying with the ring on his little finger in an unusual sign of agitation, “but the extent of the rebellion is unclear. Reinforcements may be required.”

   Geoffrey waited, praying with silent intensity that the King wouldn’t require his company in Yorkshire.

   His prayers were answered. “I want you to ride west,” the King added, “and order the Earls of Pembroke and Devon to join us at Newark with all their power.”

   Geoffrey tried not to exhale with relief. “Yes, Majesty,”he said gratefully, “when should I leave?”

   “Today. Now. Speed is all. Take a couple of guards and the pick of my horses from the royal stables. You have proved a reliable servant in the past. Do not fail me now, Sir Geoffrey.”

   Edward once again offered his hand, as a signal that the interview was over. Geoffrey brushed his lips against it and bowed his way out of the chamber.

4.

Yorkshire

A lone priest made a tempting target to anyone desperate enough to risk their souls by waylaying a man of God. But these were desperate times, especially in the north. The country groaned under the taxes imposed by the King to pay for his incessant wars, and there were many who preferred to turn brigand rather than endure the pain of living as honest men. 

   Few were foolish enough to travel the roads and highways of Yorkshire without companions. The priest was such a one. He was wrapped up in a heavy cloak and mantle of coarse wool, his head bowed and shoulders slumped under the pelting rain. His horse was a miserable, barrel-bellied palfrey. Her hoofs splashed in thick mud as she plodded miserably through the cold and wet, spattering her rider’s legs with filth.

   Horse and rider were toiling along a narrow road through a little forested valley in North Yorkshire. The walls of the valley rose sharply either side of the road, covered in sodden layers of undergrowth and scattered clusters of oak, silver birch and ash trees. All was quiet save for the pattering of rain through the leaves and the cawing of an indignant crow as he perched on a branch and shook his soaking feathers dry.

   A man emerged from behind the stump of a rotting oak, slid down the muddy bank on his backside and leaped onto the road in front of his quarry.

   “Give me your purse,” he panted, drawing his dagger from the piece of string that served him for a belt, “or I’ll kill you.”

   The priest brought his lumbering palfrey to a halt. He showed no sign of panic at the robber’s sudden appearance.

   “I have no money,” said James Bolton, “I am a poor priest, and rely on the charity of others. You will get nothing from me, my son, save the blessing of Christ.”

   He deliberately kept his face hidden under his hood, knowing it would unnerve the robber. The latter was a sorry figure, hollow-cheeked and dangerously lean, his cavernous eyes burning with fever. He stank like a privy, and was clad in a filthy brown smock that barely reached to his knees. His legs were bare, chapped and unshod, and almost comically thin.

  
The merry life of an outlaw
, James thought wryly. This was the third time he had been waylaid since leaving the Midlands. He owed his survival to his wits, the coat of mail he wore under his monkish robes, and the quick way he handled the poniard and falchion hanging from his belt.

   “You must be carrying something of value,” the robber insisted, “get off your horse and lie flat on the road while I search your saddle-bags. If you haven’t got anything, I’ll take the horse.”

   He was trembling, James noticed. The dagger in his hand was a pathetic little sticker, the blade spotted with rust.

   “I will not and you shall not,” James replied patiently, “but I have a bit of bread and hard cheese in my satchel. You can have that if you let me pass. It might keep you alive a while longer.”

   The robber’s mouth opened and shut soundlessly. He clearly hadn’t expected such calm defiance, especially from a priest, and was at a loss. James found it impossible not to take pity on him. Cursing himself, because it interfered with his mission, he decided to try and do some good.

   “You need shelter,” he said gently, “plenty of food and sleep, and a warm fire. None of which you will get out here. Put the knife down and come with me. When we reach Middleham I will find you somewhere to stay.”

   Faint spots of colour appeared on the robber’s scrawny neck. “I need no charity from you, priest!” he cried bitterly, and sprang at James.

   He tried to snatch hold of James’ leg, but the latter slipped his foot out of the stirrup and kicked out. His boot caught the robber under the chin, whipping his head back and knocking him into a puddle.

   James drew his falchion, a brutish, heavy-bladed weapon like a cleaver. He weighed it in his hand a moment, deliberately giving the robber time to recover. His palfrey snorted and pawed the ground, but was otherwise unruffled by the excitement.

   “The well of Christian charity has run dry,” he warned, “piss off, fellow, if you want to live.”

   The other man shakily got to his feet, massaging his bruised jaw. A thin trail of blood leaked from his split lower lip. His eyes, when they had re-focused, fixed on the butcher’s tool in James’ hand. He started to tremble even more violently, he dropped his pathetic little knife, and a single tear crept down his dirty cheek.

   “For God’s sake,” muttered James, lowering his falchion. He rummaged in his purse with his free hand and dug out a gold coin.

   “Here,” he said, flipping the coin into the mud at the robber’s feet, “I lied. I carry plenty of money.”

   For a moment the robber hesitated, but desperate greed got the better of him. He squatted on his bony haunches and snatched up the coin. His mouth dropped opened in shock as he examined it. James had given him a golden angel, worth over six shillings and enough to feed the robber for weeks. Assuming he lived that long.

   James slid his falchion back into its leather sheath as he watched the robber scramble nimbly up the bank and disappear into the undergrowth.

  
Like a half-starved ape
, he thought, and glanced up at the sky. He judged it be to past noon. The rain was still falling, and it was at least another two hours’ ride to Middleham.

   James sighed, gave silent thanks to God for delivering him safe through another trial, and twitched his reins. His palfrey resumed her steady, remorseless plod through the murk.

   Middleham was a small but prosperous market town in Wensleydale, on the road from Richmond to Skipton. The town was dominated by the castle, a huge, compact and fortified palace. 

   The castle was James’ destination, and he was only too glad to arrive within sight of the place. In other circumstances he might have enjoyed the gaunt beauty of the North Yorkshire countryside, but after nine hours in the saddle all he wanted was a change of clothes, a long drink of heated wine and a steaming hot bath.

   James decided to find an inn inside the town for the night, and to make his presence known to the castle garrison in the morning. He was exhausted and in no condition to discuss politics. His message could keep.

   His palfrey was almost as tired as her rider. James climbed painfully out of the saddle and led her through the dank, cobbled streets. The miserable weather was keeping most people inside, or so he thought until he heard raised voices ahead, accompanied by the occasional cheer and drum-roll.

   There was quite a large crowd gathered inside the market-place. Many of them were young men, clustered around a wooden platform in the middle of the square. The platform was raised above the ground on four ale-barrels. 

   Four men, soldiers in jacks and sallets, stood on it. Two supported a huge pole, fixed to which was a square banner displaying the arms of the Earl of Warwick, a white bear chained to a ragged staff against a yellow field. The third carried a drum slung across his hip, which he periodically beat to echo the words of the fourth soldier, a broad-chested officer.