Revenge (41 page)

   Keep riding. That was the thing. Just keep his horse at a steady gallop, don’t look back, and find somewhere to hole up for a while.

   He rode past Banbury and took refuge in the forest, a few miles south-west of the town. There was a risk of meeting with outlaws, but at times like this risks had to be weighed in the balance. Geoffrey found a pretty sun-dappled glade next to a brook, tethered his horse to a stout beech tree, and collapsed exhausted with his back to the trunk.

   “Damn them,” he muttered, his eyes half-closed, “damn them all.”

   The objects of his damnation were many, ranging from King Edward to the Earls of Warwick, Pembroke and Devon…most of all the Boltons, Richard Bolton in particular, the dead man who had risen again from a past Geoffrey had thought long-buried and forgotten.   

   He dimly recalled one summer’s afternoon, over twenty years and several worlds away, when he and Richard had been playing together beside a stream in the orchard at Heydon Court. They had started to fight, for what reason Geoffrey couldn’t remember, and he had lost his temper. Richard was the bigger and stronger boy, but on this occasion Geoffrey took him by surprise and pushed him into the water. He had jumped in after and knelt on Richard’s chest, holding his head under the surface until bubbles started to rise as he fought for air. 

   Geoffrey had let him up just in time, something he had often regretted since. Never more so than now.

  
Should have drowned the little turd,
he thought. Well, there was still time to correct past mistakes. All depended on how the King reacted to this defeat. Edward was not the type to lose heart easily, but Geoffrey couldn’t see what he could do other than flee the country or throw himself on Warwick’s mercy.

   The only Yorkist field army had been destroyed. All Edward had left was a few hundred men at Nottingham, and most of them would desert once the news of Edgecote reached the city. The King was caught, like a snared rabbit, between the northern rebels and the forces of Warwick and Clarence.

   Duty and honour might beckon Geoffrey to Nottingham, to defend the man he had sworn an oath of loyalty to until his last breath, but they beckoned in vain. He decided to spend the night in the forest, and start out for Malvern Hall in the morning. If the road to Staffordshire was blocked, he could make for his cousin’s manor in Herefordshire, near the Welsh border.

   Hide, lie low until the current storms had blown over, and re-merge when one faction had completely destroyed the other. Whoever the victor was, Geoffrey would bow and scrape and massage relevant backsides with his tongue until his position at court was secure again.

   He endured a virtually sleepless night. The summer heat was oppressive, especially encased in his armour – he dared not take it off – and even when he did start to drift his mind was instantly assailed by nightmares of a grinning man in a black mask forcing his head down onto a block. Geoffrey would wake up, trembling and perspiring, just before the executioner’s broadsword sliced into his neck. 

   At last he gave up the attempt to sleep and crept out into the early dawn, just as the first rays of light started to lance through the trees. He led his horse on foot, wishing to spare her strength in case of pursuit, and ventured back to the road.

   A hush had fallen over the world. Geoffrey had not seen another soul since fleeing the battle, but the silence and the loneliness only scraped further at his wafer-thin nerves. The shock and horror of the previous day seemed like a distant memory, though not distant enough for his liking.

   He was in unfamiliar country, and had only a hazy notion of what lay immediately to the north. The towns of Warwick and Coventry were just a few miles distant, but he had no intention of going near either. The West Midlands, along with much of Yorkshire, were part of the Earl of Warwick’s power base. His troops would soon be all over the region like an outbreak of sores on a beggar.

   The rough roads soon widened out into a highway, enough for several horsemen to ride abreast. There was no traffic, unsurprising considering the early hour, and after he had ridden a mile or two Geoffrey began to congratulate himself on a fortunate but well-executed escape.

   Experience should have taught him not to be so complacent. Someone hallooed in the woods to his left, almost making him void his bladder. The trees suddenly exploded with horsemen, four of them bursting from cover to block the road to the north.

   Gulping in panic, Geoffrey gave a sharp twist on his reins, but there was no escape to the south either. Three more riders filled the road in that direction, leaving him with no option but to plunge into the woods.

   “Stay, Sir Geoffrey!” a familiar voice cut through his terror, “you need have no fear of us. We thought you might be an enemy, and so we hid until I could see your face.”

   Geoffrey had last heard that voice comparing Lord Herbert’s ancestors to a pack of bare-legged savages. He looked to his right, and saw the Earl of Devon cantering towards him.

   The earl was in a sad plight. His helmet and shield were gone, and his armour bore the dints and stains of heavy fighting. Smears of dried blood clung to the steel, most of it belonging to other people. A makeshift bandage made from a livery coat bearing his arms was wrapped around the top of his head, like a bloodstained turban. 

   His men looked equally battered and weary. Geoffrey recognised two as Devon’s household knights, while the others were men-at-arms wearing the liveries of various Marcher lords. The sharper-eyed among them glanced dubiously at Geoffrey’s armour, which was notably free of marks.

   “These few were all I managed to extricate from that bloody mess at Edgecote,” said Devon, “most of my household died preventing the enemy from taking me prisoner. They fought like lions, Sir Geoffrey! Their sacrifice shall not be forgotten.”

   The earl had a habit of talking in this pompous manner, which was no doubt how he imagined a high-ranking peer should speak. Geoffrey was in no mood for his pretensions.

    “I am happy to see you alive, my lord,” he said, straining to sound like he gave a damn, “but Warwick and his allies have the victory, and we must make the best of it. Now, if you will permit me…”

   Devon seized his wrist. “Quite right!” he bellowed before Geoffrey could finish his sentence, “the traitors may have gained a battle, but what of it? We can soon put another army in the field. I was hoping to join the King at Nottingham, but now I see a better plan. We shall return to the West Country, my heartland, and rouse the loyal men there.”

   Geoffrey could have wept. Devon could go to the West Country or Hell for all he cared. In the face of the earl’s determination to hurl his shrinking carcase back into deadly danger, Geoffrey’s natural tendency to grovel before social superiors wilted a little.  

   “What loyal men do you hope to rouse?” he snapped, “unless you mean to rouse them from the dead. My lord, the best of your tenants and retainers lie dead on the field at Edgecote. There is no-one left in England who can oppose Warwick and his friends. Not even the King.”

   Devon didn’t seem to hear him. In common with many great lords, he had a talent for filtering out the words of lesser men.

   “Warwick will move quickly to secure the midlands,” he said firmly, “while His Majesty lies powerless at Nottingham. Unlike that fool Pembroke, I will not allow myself to fall into the traitor’s lap. Come!”

   Geoffrey found himself dragged along, bleating helplessly, unable to think of a convincing excuse to duck out of the earl’s desperate scheme. That would ruin his (entirely undeserved) military reputation, and disgrace him in the eyes of Devon’s followers, who looked sufficiently unimpressed already. Geoffrey didn’t like the way they looked at him, and knew how quickly rough, angry men could turn to violence.  

   Devon knew the lay of the land better than Geoffrey, and led the way at a brisk pace, heading south-west. He insisted that Geoffrey rode beside him, which robbed the latter of any opportunity to make a sudden dash for freedom. Not that he was inclined to try: he could almost sense the eagerness of some of the soldiers to put a blade in him.

   He sought consolation in planning for the near future. At some point, maybe at night, the men around him would relax their guard, and he could make good his escape. Devon would curse him for a coward and a deserter, but Geoffrey cared little what he thought. The earl was a dead man walking, careering blithely down the road to his own destruction.

   The little group of survivors rode on until darkness started to fall, only halting to rest and water their horses. They saw few people on the roads, which Geoffrey recognised as a typical symptom of war: the locals would be cowering for safety in their homes, praying that locked gates and stout walls would be enough to deter the armies of either faction from falling on them.

   His misery was tempered a little by the lack of pursuit, and he judged that Warwick’s troops must still be miles to the east. No doubt the earl was toasting his victory in the blood of his prisoners. Pembroke and his brother would be the first to feel the cold kiss of the executioner’s blade on their necks. It was a warm day, and Geoffrey was perspiring from the exercise of a long ride, but still he shivered.

   He was obliged to endure another comfortless night in the forest, plagued by summer heat and persistent nightmares. When he woke it was to discover that some of the men had done what he lacked the courage to do, and deserted.

   “Traitors!” the earl bawled as he strode about the little clearing where they had made their camp, “they took my money and ate my salt, and this is how they repay me! Sneaking off in the night, the rogues! False, faithless villains!”

   Geoffrey could see that three of the horses had gone, along with their owners. He took heart from this. Perhaps Devon’s following would soon dwindle to nothing, which might in turn bring the idiot to his senses.

   The diminished party resumed their journey in grim silence. Their rations were running low, so Devon led a raid on the next little village they came across, a cluster of poor labourer’s huts without even a timber stockade to protect it.

   Most of the peasants sullenly allowed their homes to be plundered. The exception was the smith. He, a big, brawny man, raced out of his forge waving a hammer, and rushed fearlessly at the earl.

   “Fool,” remarked Devon as he wiped his sword clean, “what made him throw away his life like that?

   He had neatly chopped out the smith’s throat, as easily as another man might swat a fly. Geoffrey glanced nervously at the corpse, blood still pumping from the ghastly wound in its neck, and at the villagers standing nearby. Something of their cringing, glumly accepting demeanour had vanished, and he didn’t like the look in their eyes. Even cattle could turn.

    “I think we should leave, my lord,” he said slowly, “now.”

   Devon was not a sensitive man, but the clear warning in Geoffrey’s voice got through to him. He yelled at his men to cease ransacking the cottages and outbuildings. They reluctantly obeyed and straggled back to their horses with armfuls of stolen loaves, cheeses and flitches of bacon. One man had robbed a hen-house and neatly strangled three of the slowest birds. They dangled limply from his hand as he gave the nearest peasant girl a wink and swaggered away, whistling tunelessly.

   Geoffrey had kept a careful eye on the villagers. They outnumbered the soldiers three to one, and now one of them bent to pick up a stone.

   “Beware!” he shouted, just as the stone was cast. The chicken thief had neglected to wear his sallet, and it hit him behind the ear. He swore, raised his free hand to the spot, and swore even louder when he saw blood on his fingers.

   “Which of you fucking clods threw that?” he rasped, turning to confront the villagers, “whoever it was had better start running.”

   His eyes widened in shock as they spat insults at him. More stones flew, and a particularly well-aimed one struck him full in the face. He went down like a felled tree. Three of the younger men charged in to finish him off as he lay stunned and bleeding. One of them carried a scythe with a wickedly curved blade.

   “God bless King Henry!” a rough voice cried, “and the devil take the House of York!”

   Geoffrey wheeled his horse. “Ride!” he shouted as he galloped past the earl, who looked amazed at what was happening.

  A hideous dying shriek erupted behind Geoffrey as he flogged his horse’s flanks with his spurs, probably uttered by the soldier who had stolen the hens. Geoffrey whimpered at the thought of the scythe-blade cutting into his own flesh.

   “Faster, you lumbering nag,” he shouted, “go faster, can’t you?”

   He didn’t stop or even look back until he had put the best part of two miles between himself and the village. Fearful that his horse might founder, he eased her to a halt and risked a glance behind.

   At first the narrow road was empty, but then he caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the earl appeared. One of his two remaining knights rode just a couple of yards behind him. There was no sign of the other.

   “The rogues pulled down Sir Ranulf,” panted Devon when he reined in, wiping his streaming face with the back of his gauntlet, “they dared to lay their filthy hands on a gentleman!”

   “And put an axe into his head,” added the knight, who carried a mace spattered with flecks of blood, “we barely got away.”