Revenge (42 page)

   “They shouted for King Henry, and cursed the House of York,” said Devon, his voice bubbling with indignation, “I distinctly heard them. What ill fortune led us into such a nest of traitors?”

   Geoffrey’s heart was thumping dangerously fast, and he could barely hear the other man above the rushing of blood in his ears.

   “My lord,” he managed, “we are but three now. Our lives are in peril. We must ride hard for your lands in the southwest, and pray that the news of the battle at Edgecote does not travel before us.”

   Devon continued to rage at the disloyalty of commoners, but heeded Geoffrey’s advice. From then on they were careful to stick to the roads by day and hide in the forest at night.

   Two of the longest days of Geoffrey’s life passed. His companions were as tense and nervous as he, and barely a word passed between them until they reached the borders of Somerset, where Devon’s confidence returned in a flood.

   “Now we shall see a different kind of Englishman,” he declared, “no traitors here, but true subjects of King Edward. We need not creep about like forest thieves any more. The people here know me, and love what they know.”

   These were brave words, and Geoffrey instinctively distrusted them. He knew that the south-west was bitterly divided between the supporters of York and Lancaster, and that one of the recent Earls of Devon had been a Lancastrian, killed at Towton: his disinherited sons were still living. He could not guess at the loyalties of the people of Somerset, but what occurred at the village had given him some idea. The sun of York was waning, for the time being, which meant trouble for those who had basked in its light.

   He beseeched the earl to be cautious, and to give all settlements a wide berth until they reached one of his strongholds in Devonshire.

   Devon refused to listen. He had suffered too many humiliations for his pride to bear, and was impatient to redeem his honour.

   “We shall go to Bridgwater,” he said, “and raise my banner there. It is a good Yorkist town. The citizens will flock to join me.”

   Geoffrey was aghast at this decision, and even Sir Richard Sturridge, the earl’s sole remaining follower, voiced his doubts. Devon swept aside their objections with a contemptuous flourish.

   Bridgwater was a wealthy port and market town, divided in two by a wide river and defended by a fine castle, but without walls: instead the town was contained inside a series of ditches and rows of houses, with gates inside stone buildings facing north, south, east and west.

   Devon led his companions over the causeway that led to the eastern gate, and flatly refused Geoffrey’s plea that he put off his livery coat. His intention was to be recognised, he insisted, otherwise how would the citizens know him?

   The gate stood open, and the guards exchanged knowing glances when the earl hailed them in the name of King Edward. Geoffrey knew he should have turned and fled then, but something of Devon’s indestructible confidence had infected him.

   A rabble of small boys ran before them into the town, shouting that the Earl of Devon had come, and that he only had two men with him.

   Geoffrey kept his hand on the grip of his sword as they trotted up the wide main street, flanked by rows of tall gabled houses and with the grey bulk of the castle looming to their right. People appeared in the doorways, drawn by the shouts, while the marketplace ahead was already crowded.

   Despite his cool reception at the gate, Devon seemed convinced that the citizens would be overjoyed to see him.

   “Good people,” he bellowed, raising a clenched fist, “I am returned safe from the wars. Not, I am sad to say, with tidings of victory. The treacherous Earl of Warwick and his perjured friends have gained a battle. ”

   The people in the market started to move towards them. Geoffrey saw little joy or enthusiasm in their dirty, pinched faces. Some looked baffled, others uncertain, but the prevailing mood was anger. He could hear it in the rising murmur of voices, and see it in the narrowed eyes and angry faces.

   He swore under his breath. They were in the village again, but this time the odds were even greater. There was no escape route. The east gate was closed. They were surrounded.

   “God save King Henry!” someone yelled.

   “God for Lancaster! God for our rightful King! Down with Edward of March! Down with Yorkist traitors!”

   These cries filled the air, mingled with curses and threats. Emboldened by their numbers, the crowd closed in further, tightening like a noose around the little group of horsemen.

   Devon slowly lowered his fist. He looked puzzled rather than frightened, as if this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding.

   Geoffrey racked his brains for something to say, some clever speech that would distract the crowd, but before he could speak Sir Richard committed the worst folly imaginable.

   The knight drew his sword, and put his body between his lord and the nearest citizens.

   “Back, you scum!” he shouted, pointing his blade at a heavy man in a butcher’s apron, “back, unless you want to see the colour of your innards!”

   That did it. The braver men in the crowd surged forward. Someone threw a rock that struck Sir Richard’s horse in the neck, causing her to shriek and lurch sideways. Her hoofs skidded on the cobbles. The butcher seized her reins, while his mates clustered around her rider and tried to drag him from the saddle. Sir Richard’s sword flashed as he tried to cut his way free, but they twisted the weapon out of his grip.

   Geoffrey knew that to draw his own sword would be suicide. He was surrounded by bodies, stinking bodies that breathed rage and abuse at him. There was no room for his horse to turn.

   It was all so miserably unfair. He, who had survived the battlefields of Northampton and Towton and achieved wealth and favour, was going to die in this wretched backwater, murdered by a mob!  He sobbed and cursed and pleaded with God to save him. He yelled for his mother. He pissed himself.

   “Please!” he howled as filthy hands clutched at his legs, “I surrender! I’ll do anything – please don’t kill me! I have money! You can have it all, lands, castles, anything! Oh God, no!”

   Devon had vanished, but Geoffrey could hear his indignant shouts. They were followed by a bubbling scream, and he glimpsed a man hoisted aloft on the shoulders of his mates. The man was laughing, and his sticky crimson hands held something that looked very much like a severed penis.

   Vomit filled Geoffrey’s mouth as he was yanked off his horse and fell awkwardly, hitting his head on the cobbles. Shadows fell over him. Half-choking on his own bile, he looked up to see a ring of bestial, leering faces and a man raising a cleaver.

   Instinct took over. He wrenched the gold ring inlaid with a little white gem from his middle finger – a present from his wife – and mutely offered it up.      

10.

Northampton

“No pretty speeches,” snapped Warwick, “I want his head off before breakfast.”

   He gestured impatiently at the two men-at-arms guarding the Earl of Pembroke. One of them produced a white cloth and started to bind it around the prisoner’s eyes.

   “You must kneel, lord,” said the other when his mate was finished, “and place your head on the block.”

   Pembroke gave a barely perceptible nod and did as he was asked. Warwick had hoped that he would beg for his life, or at least show some sign of fear. Instead he approached his last moments on earth with the same calm dignity and noble bearing that he had shown since Edgecote.

   Warwick gnawed a knuckle. He was hungry, and hadn’t slept properly, and the conduct of his defeated enemy was making him feel like the lesser man.    

   “You see how a man can die well,” cried Sir Richard Herbert, the condemned man’s younger brother, “take note, my lord Warwick. It may be your turn soon.”

   Sir Richard stood beside the scaffold among the condemned Yorkist knights and gentry, all stripped to their hose and under-shirts and guarded by a double wall of men-at-arms.

   A great crowd had gathered to watch the executions. As always on such occasions, there was something of a carnival atmosphere. The air was full of the smell of baked meats and spiced bread, and the marketplace echoed to the cries of pardoners and street-hawkers selling their wares.

   Warwick was in no mood to chop words with condemned men. He signalled to his drummers, and they started to beat out a rhythm as the chaplain finished murmuring the last rites over Pembroke.

   The executioner stepped forward. He was a burly, sinister figure, stripped to the waist, his face hidden by a black hood with eye-holes. The crowd whooped and applauded at the sight of him, and the huge double-handed broadsword he carried.

   The condemned man didn’t even tremble. Warwick felt a pang of irritation. All the talk in the ale-houses tonight would be of how well Pembroke had died, instead of the great triumph of the Earl of Warwick.

   Pembroke had had no trial: he wasn’t guilty of anything, except quarrelling with Warwick and opposing the latter’s ambitions in Wales. Warwick knew that his death was unjust and illegal, but that was of secondary importance. It was necessary. So were the deaths of his followers. All of them were loyal to King Edward, and could not be allowed to live.

   The executioner, who had a taste for the theatrical, gently laid the keen edge of his sword against the back of Pembroke’s neck. He slowly raised the sword. The drums rose to a crescendo.

   They stopped. The sword fell, and a groan erupted from the crowd as Pembroke’s noble head was sliced from his noble neck and dropped into the wicker basket under the block. 

   Warwick relaxed a little. The earl had been a formidable enemy, one of the chief bulwarks of King Edward’s regime. Now his head would be placed upon a spike over the town gate, and Warwick could go to breakfast.

   Escorted by six of his knights as a bodyguard, he made his way to the large half-timbered house that he had requisitioned for his lodgings, and entered the dining room. There he found the Duke of Clarence picking at a bowl of porridge and looking disconsolate. 

   “Pembroke’s gone,” Warwick said cheerfully, plumping into a seat at the opposite end of the table, “his head came off with one blow. Neat as you like.”

   The drums were rattling again. Warwick cocked his head to listen. A grin spread over his face when they stopped. Another groan burst from the crowd, slightly quieter this time.

   “There goes his brother,” he said, pouring a cup of apple cider from a fluted silver jug, “two strokes of a sword, and the king’s influence in Wales is significantly reduced. Now the lesser men will die. Heads on spikes, my lord, heads on spikes.”

   He had a sharp appetite, and rubbed his hands in anticipation as a serving-man slopped out a generous measure of porridge from the pot over the fire and laid the bowl before him. Warwick broke off a piece of good wheaten bread from the loaf on the table, smeared it with warm butter, and set to work. Silence reigned, punctuated only by the sound of his eating and regular bursts of noise from outside as the executioner reduced the list of Warwick’s enemies.

   The porridge was good, piping hot and flavoured with honey, and the cider sweet and refreshing. He was some way through his second helping of both before he bothered to look up and study Clarence.

   “What’s the matter?” he asked, wiping his mouth, “got a headache? I can’t say I’m surprised. You drank too much last night. As usual.”

   He wagged an admonishing finger at the duke. “I won’t have a drunk for a son-in-law. My daughter deserves better. Curb your excesses a little, my lord, and get some sleep at night.”

   The duke looked wan and miserable. Warwick considered him in all respects a slighter version of his brother, the king: not quite as imposing, nowhere near as capable a soldier, and entirely lacking Edward’s dash and resolve. The brothers did share a taste for debauched living. Both had gargantuan appetites for strong drink, rich food and loose women.   

   Clarence’s dissipated habits were starting to leave their mark. Though still a young man, there was a sickly, jowly look about him, and fault-lines around his eyes and mouth that shouldn’t have been there for a few years yet. 

   His appetite for food was noticeable by its absence this morning. “We are being too ruthless,” he whined, pushing away his bowl, “all these killings will not endear me to the people. Justice and mercy must go hand-in-hand.”

   Warwick settled back in his chair and sipped more of the excellent cider. “Mercy?” he said, “that’s a word I haven’t heard you use before. Revenge, yes. Fate. Destiny. I had to listen to quite a lot of that in Calais. It’s a little late for mercy, I’m afraid, unless you can think of a way of screwing Pembroke’s head back onto his body.”

   As if on cue, another drum-roll interrupted their conversation. Clarence winced at the cheers that followed.

   “For Christ’s sake,” he said desperately, “can you not put a stop to the executions, at least for now? I don’t want to be thought of as one who ascended to the throne on a heap of skulls.”

   “No, I can’t. Those men out there are loyal to your brother. By killing them, we lop off his sword-hand. Apart from the few lords he has with him at Nottingham, there is no-one else in the realm who will dare to fight for him. Or against me.”