Revenge (46 page)

   Of all the great nobles in the land, Oxford was the only one James respected. Though, like many others, circumstances had forced him to dissemble, he was unquenchably loyal to the House of Lancaster and Henry VI.

   He glanced up as James ghosted into the tiny room. “Adam, wait outside and guard the stairwell,” he grunted. The youth nodded and disappeared, slowly pushing the door shut behind him.

   Oxford didn’t offer James a seat: there were no others, and the filthy mattress and wool-stuffed bolster on the bed stank of damp and urine.

   “The King summoned Lord Welles and Sir Thomas Dymmock to Westminster,” he said, “but perhaps you know that?”

   “Yes,” replied James, “they arrived in the city two days ago, with a strong guard as an escort.”

   Oxford sniffed and blew his nose with a silk handkerchief. “Bloody cold,” he muttered, stuffing the handkerchief into his sleeve, “bloody England. Nothing but cold and damp and mist for months on end…what was I saying?”

   “Welles and Dymmock,” James said patiently.

   “Oh, yes. Well, the King summoned them to account for the attack on Gainsborough Hall. Lord Welles claimed that Sir Thomas Burgh was at fault for starting the feud between their families. Burgh, of course, hotly denied it. Bad words were exchanged, and gauntlets thrown down.”

   James smiled. This was exactly as it should be. Warwick had secretly instructed Welles to muddy the waters by claiming that Burgh had insulted him in some way. In fact Burgh had offered no insult, but Dymmock was briefed to support Welles’ claim.

   “Here’s the crux,” said Oxford, leaning forward until it seemed he might tip off his stool, “Edward has formally arrested Welles and Dymmock on charges of homicide, house-breaking and larceny, and holds them prisoner. He means to interrogate them. I’m not convinced that Welles will hold up under any form of tough questioning, let alone torture. Warwick should have picked a better dupe.”   

   James was startled. “I didn’t expect Edward to be so ruthless,” he confessed, “or so foolish. He summons men to London under safe-conduct, and then throws them into prison? Their kin won’t stand for it. There will be outrage.”

   “All to the good,” said Oxford, “now, listen. Warwick is coming to London. For the time being he wishes to appear the King’s friend, and will raise no objection to the treatment of Welles and Dymmock. Meanwhile, you are to go north into Lincolnshire with a message for Welles’ son, Sir Robert. Tell him to muster his tenants and retainers, but as quietly as possible. He is not to act until Warwick leaves London.”

   “Warwick is poised to come out into the open against the King, then? What of Clarence?”

   “Warwick and Clarence are in accord. The Bear will join with the Leopard again, and this time they shall tear out the King’s throat. Warwick knows now that he can never hope to rule England through Edward. His only option is to remove Edward and replace him with Clarence.”

  
And Clarence will not last more than a year
, thought James. He was trembling with excitement, as he used to tremble when deprived of strong drink.

   “Sir Robert has much influence in the midlands,” Oxford went on, “he is to send out notices and a general call to arms throughout Lincolnshire. Other messages will be dispatched to Lord Scrope of Bolton in Yorkshire, ordering him to raise the men of the county. Their combined armies shall march south and engage the King’s forces.”

   “And Warwick and Clarence?”

   Oxford gave a little smile. “They shall remain in the background, offering the King no support, but also giving him no reason to think they are actively in league with the rebels.”

   “So Welles and Scrope are to destroy Edward for them.”

   “Just so. Once the royal army is defeated, I will leave London and ride to join Warwick at Leicester. There we shall raise Clarence’s banner and declare him King of England. If Edward is still alive, he will be a hunted fugitive with a price on his head.”

  
If the royal army is defeated
, thought James. His excitement was tempered by the knowledge that Edward was a skilled general, and had never tasted defeat in battle.

   To him it seemed more prudent for Warwick and Clarence to openly rise in arms and march to support their allies in the north, but his word counted for nothing. He was a messenger, nothing more, and an occasional blunt instrument.

   Oxford was looking at him expectantly. “I shall leave tomorrow morning,” he said.

14.

The subdued atmosphere at Heydon Court was brutally extinguished the evening Martin chose to tell Richard about his secret trysts with Kate Malvern, and his intention to marry her.

   Since coming home, Martin had fallen into the habit of visiting The Plough inn at nearby Cromford, there to drown his memories of the battlefield horrors he had witnessed at Edgecote. His decision to inform Richard of his secret was made after he had returned from one such epic drinking session. He quickly regretted it.

   Richard’s reaction was instinctive. He was considerably smaller than Martin, but rage overcame any difference in size and strength.

   They were sitting together on a bench in the main courtyard, soaking up the last of the balmy evening sun. Martin had hardly finished speaking before he found himself on his back with Richard’s powerful hands around his throat.

   The brothers had never fought as children – there was too much of an age gap for that – and Martin had forgotten Richard’s short temper and propensity for violence. As he gasped for breath and fought to prise the steel fingers pressing against his windpipe, he looked up at a mottled, contorted face that belonged to no-one he recognised.

   “Say you speak in jest,” snarled Richard, flecks of spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth, “as you value your life.”

   He was sitting astride Martin’s chest, and try as he might the younger man could not push him off. Richard knew how to kill, had done so often, and in the grip of his anger could easily throttle his brother to death.

   Martin’s eyes were beginning to cloud over. He choked and spluttered, trying desperately to form words. Richard saw him through a fine red mist. The name of Malvern was one guaranteed to trigger something lethal inside him. He blamed the Malverns for his long exile, his failure to reconcile with his mother before her death, and the guilt he had carried for so many painful years: Richard had been powerless to save his father at Blore Heath.

   “No, my lord!”

   Hodson’s voice shouted in his ear, and a powerful arm grabbed him around the neck. Another seized his waist, and together they dragged him off his brother and prevented him from repeating the sin of Cain.

   Hodson and Matthew held him down until the red mist had ebbed. They kept a careful eye on him as he slowly got to his feet. His head was pounding, his heart beating too fast, and his breath came in short, painful gasps.

   Most of the household had turned out, drawn by the sound of fighting, and were staring at him in shocked silence. Mary was among them. Richard felt suddenly sick when he saw little Elizabeth, her eyes wide with fright.  

   Martin was sitting up, rubbing his bruised throat. “You tried…you tried to kill me,” he croaked, “what in God’s name is wrong with you? You must be mad.”

   Richard pointed a shaking finger at him. “Traitor,” he hissed. “You would betray your family, and spit on our father’s memory. You deserve to die.”

   He looked up at Elizabeth, and almost quailed when he saw the hardness in her eyes. She had always resembled their mother, but now she was Dame Elizabeth to the life: grim and unyielding in her desire for the truth, and merciless towards those who had done wrong.

   “Ask him,” he said, pointing at Martin again. “Ask him what he said to me.”

   “It was meant to be private,” gasped Martin, “just between us, for now. We are supposed to be brothers!”

   “No brother of mine would seek to mate with a Malvern. To mingle our blood with those who betrayed the King and slaughtered our father like a pig!”

   “Be silent,” said Mary, her voice cutting through the air like a whip, “whatever the reason for this idiocy, we shall not discuss it here. Hodson, attend to Martin’s throat. Richard, take yourself off somewhere and cool your blood. We shall meet at supper.”    

   Richard stood his ground for a moment. In theory Mary had no power to command him, but she spoke with a tangible power and authority that was difficult to resist.

   He looked around, and saw nothing but accusation in the eyes of the servants and men-at-arms. His surviving followers had been billeted on the villagers at Cromford, since Heydon Court lacked the space and supplies to house them, and they weren’t there to support him. Not for the first time since coming home, he felt like a barely tolerated stranger.

   “You ask him,” he growled, shooting a last contemptuous glance at Martin. Then he turned and stalked away towards the gate.

   He walked the couple of miles to Cromford and spent the night at The Plough, drinking with his men and reminiscing about old times. His brother’s self-confessed treachery still rankled, but the steady flow of ale and good company helped to quell his anger.

   By the time he staggered up to bed, Richard almost felt philosophical about the matter, and sorry for his savage behaviour. After all, Martin and his fiancée had just been children when the feud with the Malverns began. Richard still remembered dragging Kate out of the cupboard in which she had taken refuge, and threatening to murder her in front of her doomed grandfather.

   Still, he thought blearily as he undressed, the room gently spinning around him, the wounds were still too raw. Martin and Kate might be innocent, but it would take several generations for the bad blood between their families to wash out. They should have known better than to fall in love.

   “Love,” he mumbled, struggling out of his hose. It was something he had never understood, and never really experienced. Love for his family, yes, for his country, his King and his God, but not for a woman. That milder part of his nature had died at Towton.

   He traipsed back to Heydon Court the following morning with a tyrannical hangover, and to a thoroughly cool reception. The guard who admitted him through the gate ignored his greeting. The courtyard was empty, and he entered the hall to find his siblings waiting for him with little love and much judgment in their eyes.

   The meeting that followed was stormy. Richard’s actions the previous day, he was told, were deemed to be inexcusable. Any recurrence would end in him being exiled from Heydon Court.

   “I have eight good fighting men at Cromford,” said Richard, bristling at his sister’s tone, “and I am our father’s heir. With those men, and the support of the High Sheriff, I could seize Heydon Court and banish you instead.”

   Mary was unimpressed. “You freely gave up your right to inherit in favour of Martin. Sir John Stanley of Elford has been re-commissioned as Sheriff. He will remember you from the time you slipped through his grasp, eight years ago. By all means, try and seek his support. Stanley will put a rope around your neck the moment he claps eyes on you.”

   “I never officially gave up my inheritance. You have nothing in writing,” Richard protested, but could see he was on a hiding to nothing.

   “What of Kate Malvern?” he sneered, “did our brother tell you all about his grubby little affair?

  “I did,” Martin rasped, still in pain from his bruised throat, but fell silent when Mary raised her hand.

   “He was wrong to keep it a secret from us,” she said, “but I will not stand in the way of their wedding. Our grudge was with Sir Thomas, not his granddaughter. It is time old scars were healed.”

   Richard could see they were in accord. United, against him.

   “Very well,” he said, “you have made it plain I have no influence here. I had meant to stay a while longer, but refuse to live under the same roof as a Malvern.”

   His knuckles itched as a patronising smile crawled across Martin’s face. “To Italy, is it, brother?” he asked. “Perhaps you will be like old John Hawkwood, and carve out a great estate there. Or die in a ditch.”

   “Peace,” snapped Mary as the men squared up to each other, “else I shall order the guards to throw you both into the river.”

   “They would obey me,” she added in response to their incredulous looks, “I have been mistress of this house since our mother died.”

   Richard knew when he was beaten, and retired to Cromford to nurse his grievances and reflect on his future. It seemed a bleak one. Rejected by his family and unwilling to live under the heel of the usurper, it seemed he had no choice but to quit England and scrape his living as a mercenary in some foreign land.

   Despite his outward bravado, he was reluctant to sever all ties with his past, and in particular was haunted by the thought of never seeing his niece again. Something about the little girl reminded him of her late father, Henry of Sedgley, whom he missed terribly.

   Caught betwixt and between, he resorted to drink and lingered for days at Cromford, spending the last of his money on food, ale and board for himself and his comrades. They were eager to leave sleepy Staffordshire, and some yearned to return to their old life as outlaws in the forest.