Revenge (43 page)

   “Us,” said Clarence with a scowl.

   “Of course.”

   Warwick was silent for the rest of the meal, and rebuffed Clarence’s occasional attempts at conversation. He had all heard it all before anyway. Clarence was entirely self-centred, and had joined with Warwick against the King out of a sense of grievance fuelled by selfishness and greed.

   King Edward, quite sensibly, had refused to give his wayward brother a say in government, and his clandestine marriage to Elizabeth Woodville had threatened Clarence’s position as heir presumptive. If Elizabeth gave birth to a healthy son or two, the duke’s chances of succeeded to the throne would recede into the distance.

   Not that Warwick, being no fool, ever made any firm promises to make Clarence king. Like an expert fisherman reeling in a prize catch, he had dangled the bait before the ambitious young man’s nose, and the latter swallowed it whole. Warwick’s real intention was to introduce his family to the royal bloodline. Marrying his daughter Isabel to Clarence had been his greatest success.

   Posterity, in Warwick’s view, was everything. With luck, and assuming Clarence’s virility wasn’t yet entirely expended on whores, a son or grandson of his would sit on the throne of England.

   In the meantime, there was the question of what to do with King Edward. They had been friends, once, and Warwick was reluctant to see him end on the scaffold. Besides which, the execution of an anointed king was all but unthinkable.

   “When our business is finished here,” he said, raising his voice above the tumult of another death, “we shall go north, and prise your brother out of Nottingham.”

   “Both my brothers,” Clarence reminded him, “Richard is there too.”

   Warwick pursed his lips. That was another complication. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was the youngest of the surviving royal brothers. He was sixteen now, and just coming into his own. His character was as yet a mystery.

   “He can be dismissed, for now,” said Warwick, “a boy his age is unlikely to cause us too much trouble.”

   Three days later Warwick led his army out of Northampton and marched north, towards Coventry, leaving a forest of heads on spikes decorating the town gates. Apart from Clarence, he had with him his brother, the Archbishop of York, and John de Vere, Earl of Oxford.

   York and Oxford were solid, reliable men, and made for a reassuring contrast to the unstable Clarence. Oxford in particular could be relied on to do anything that might cause harm to the House of York: his father and brother had both been executed by the Yorkists, and he nursed a brooding, deathless grudge against King Edward and John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, who had presided as judge over the trials of his kin.

   It was high summer, and the army trudged wearily through dust and merciless heat. Unable to endure the stifling discomfort of a helmet, Warwick rode bareheaded. Sweat rolled down his body in waves under its casement of steel and leather, obliging him to drink a ceaseless flow of watered wine.

   “Much more of this, and I shall have a seizure,” he muttered, gasping as he made the mistake of wiping his streaming forehead with the back of his gauntlet. The metal was too hot to touch, and left a burn-mark on his skin.

   “Damn it,” he rasped. He thought he heard Clarence snort, and shot him a venomous look.

   Warwick had sent out scouts and troops of light horse to report on the king’s movements at Nottingham and hunt down those Yorkist noblemen who had escaped the slaughter at Edgecote. The list of fugitives included the Earl of Devon, Earl Rivers and Sir John Woodville. The latter two were members of the vile clan of Woodvilles whom King Edward had foolishly ennobled and promoted above the men who put him on the throne in the first place.

   A group of his scouts returned before the army reached Coventry, bearing news that lifted Warwick’s spirits and made him forget the oppressive heat.

   “The King left Nottingham yesterday, lord,” one of them reported, “and marched for Northampton, doubtless hoping to meet with Pembroke and Devon’s army. Before he could reach the town, a messenger brought him news of Edgecote.”

   “What then?” Warwick demanded hoarsely. His steel fingers curled tightly about his reins.

   The scout grinned. “His army fell apart, lord. Most of his men deserted on the spot, knights, footmen, archers, the lot. Only a few lords and their retainers stayed with him, including Lord Hastings and the Duke of Gloucester. Less than fifty men.”   

   Warwick felt like punching the air, but instead turned to his brother, the archbishop. “George,” he said, “take three hundred men, ride north and find the king. When you do, dismiss Hastings and Gloucester and invite His Majesty to join us at Coventry.”

   “Invite him?” Clarence exclaimed angrily, “Edward is beaten. He is our prisoner. Let him be brought to Coventry in chains, and carried on the back of a cart!”

   Warwick looked at him with distaste. “I can see fraternal ties count for little in your family,” he said drily, “think, you fool. We cannot be seen to take the king prisoner. That would imply we are at war with the anointed monarch.”

   “We are at war!” Clarence shot back, “or was Edgecote just an unfortunate misunderstanding?”

   “Precisely that. We were ridding His Majesty of evil advisers, that’s all.”

   Clarence looked baffled, so Warwick gave up and turned back to his brother. “Go,” he said, “and we shall await you at Coventry.”      

11.

The Archbishop of York found Edward and what was left of his retinue on the Northampton road, not far from Olney.

   Edward made no effort to resist or escape, and ordered his followers to keep their swords in their scabbard.

   “The time will come,” he assured his brother Gloucester, “when we can draw them again, and cleave the necks of these traitors. But not now.”

   Gloucester slowly let his hand drop from his sword-hilt. The two men could not have made for a greater contrast. Gloucester was small and dark-haired, pale and lightly-built, with a long, anxious face and delicate white hands. There was an air of gloomy introspection about him, and Edward often found it impossible to read his thoughts.

   His loyalty, however, was beyond question. “Here comes the noble servant of God,” he said in his quiet, clipped tones.

   The archbishop reined in his horse in a cloud of dust. Unlike the other nobles, all cased in steel, he wore a loose, ankle-length cassock appropriate to his office, and consequently looked far more cheerful in the heat.

   “My lord king,” he boomed, sweeping off his floppy black hat and bowing his head, “I am glad to see Your Majesty again, though I could have wished for happier circumstances.”

   “You have little cause for sadness, Your Grace,” replied Edward, making a quick head-count of the armed horsemen at the archbishop’s back, “your brother Warwick’s star is in the ascendant, and you cannot help but rise with it.”

   Neville gravely shook his head. “No true churchman can take pleasure in seeing the realm at war, and good Englishmen spilling each other’s blood. I pray for peace.”

   “On your terms,” retorted Edward, and suddenly tired of the game. “What message from your brother? I see you he dispatched you with a strong guard. Am I his prisoner, then?”

   “No, lord king. He sent me to take Your Majesty into his protection, and to invite you to join him at Coventry.”

   Edward had to grin, but Gloucester failed to see the funny side. “Protection?” he snarled, “what kind of man raises arms against his king, and then uses weasel words to entrap him?”

   Edward raised his hand. “Peace, Richard. There is no use in quarrelling after the battle is lost. Is our brother Clarence also at Coventry?”

   “He is, Majesty,” replied Neville, contriving to ignore Gloucester’s dark looks and darker mutterings, “I fear he is not quite as well-disposed to his kin as he might be, but have no fear. The Earl of Warwick has him on a tight leash.”

   The King doubted that anyone could truly claim to control Clarence, but meekly agreed to Warwick’s demands.

   “His Grace the Duke of Gloucester and Lord Hastings must depart,” added Neville, “my brother does not require their presence.”

   “And I do not require his company,” Gloucester said angrily, “but I will not allow the King to venture alone into a snake-pit.”

   Lord Hastings was more circumspect. A much older man in his forties, stout and greying, he had served the House of York loyally for many years, and was not easily ruffled.

   “I do believe that Warwick means Your Majesty any harm,” he said, “else he would have done it by now. He will have slaked his thirst for blood on Pembroke.”

   Hastings raised an eyebrow at Neville, who had the decency to look away. “The Earl of Pembroke died three days ago,” he said gruffly, “along with his brother, and sundry other knights and gentlemen captured at Edgecote. The Earl of Devon, Earl Rivers and Sir John Woodville are still at large.”

   Edward had to suppress a surge of anger as he pictured his loyal followers, men who had served him faithfully and well, butchered like pigs by Warwick, his erstwhile friend. Others, like Rivers and Woodville, were being chased around the country in terror for their lives, while he sat here and bandied words with a smirking prelate. 

   Anger was swiftly followed by remorse. He was at fault, for all of it. If he hadn’t given way to despair at Nottingham, and wasted his time writing futile letters of love and friendship to Warwick and Clarence, all this might have been avoided.

   What had happened to him? The Edward of old would have acted like the gifted soldier he was, and ridden to join Herbert and Devon as they marched to his aid. With him at the head of their combined forces, they would have soon whipped the northern rebels and brought Warwick to heel. As for Clarence, false, perjured Clarence, the pain Edward felt at a brother’s treachery would be visited tenfold on the culprit.

   Would be. Edward would yet recover his position, and make amends. All he had to do was bide his time and wait for the roof to cave in on Warwick and his friends.

   “To Coventry, then,” he said. Gloucester tried to argue, but Edward was unmoved, and ordered his brother and Hastings to depart.

   The King’s reunion with his one-time friend and his brother was a surprisingly civilised affair, with little in the way of recrimination. He was greeted in royal fashion at Coventry and cheered through the streets by the massed ranks of a citizenry that still loved him, even if he was no longer the godlike conqueror of eight years ago.

   Warwick and Clarence were waiting for him at the entrance to the guildhall, where they had taken up residence. The three men greeted each other with painted-on smiles and kisses of peace.

   Edward saw little of Clarence after that, for which he was grateful, and rather too much of Warwick. The earl repeatedly insisted that he had only organised a rebellion in order to bring Edward to his senses, and to rid him of upstart commoners and bad advisors.

   “Your father rose against King Henry for exactly the same reasons,” Warwick added. “You must choose the men around you more carefully, lord king. Otherwise the realm suffers.”

   Edward suffered these lectures in polite silence, though he had to summon his utmost reserves of willpower and self-control to do so. Fortunately, Warwick’s rank hypocrisy and self-interest was enough to strike any man dumb.

   Word soon reached Coventry that the Earl of Devon was dead, torn to pieces by a mob in Bridgwater. Edward’s heart lurched when he heard the news. He derived a fragment of consolation from the fact that Sir Geoffrey Malvern, who had been in Bridgwater with the earl, was still alive. The mayor was currently holding him prisoner, and demanding a ransom for his release.

   “Do me this favour,” he asked Warwick, “and pay Malvern’s ransom. He is a good knight, and a trusted servant.”

   Warwick, who was also fond of Sir Geoffrey and considered him too unimportant to be dangerous, agreed.

   Any hint of a rapprochement between them was extinguished when Earl Rivers and Sir John Woodville were captured and brought into Coventry. Both men were beheaded before Edward had even learned of their arrival.

   “They were not worth Your Majesty’s sorrow,” Warwick told him, “behind their fair words and smiling faces, they sought to lead you astray. I have performed a service in killing them.”

   Somehow Edward maintained his diffident expression. Inside he was on fire, and it took a mighty effort of will to stop himself from diving at Warwick and crushing his skull against the wall.

  
Patience,
Edward told himself,
patience is all.

12.

Heydon Court had been dark and silent since the men rode off to war. With only a few servants left to her, Mary had shut up two-thirds of the house. She and her daughter occupied the hall and the adjoining bedchamber, though Mary spent much of her time in the private family chapel, praying for the safe return of her brothers and the restoration of King Henry. 

   She moved about her own house like a ghost, remembering happier times when the darkened corridors and locked rooms had been alive with light and laughter. If not for her free-spirited daughter, who ran about and made enough noise for several adults, the place would have seemed like a tomb.