Revenge (5 page)

The brave words sounded embarrassingly hollow to York’s ears, though his sons looked cheered by them.
At least I can still inspire my children
, he thought, watching nervously as the crew of the serpentine loaded a small round iron ball into the barrel and packed it down with wadding. He had witnessed guns explode before, blowing their crew to pieces.

York braced himself as one of the crewmen gingerly placed a lit fuse into the touch-hole. He had dropped it in too quickly, and the fuse fell onto the grass, where it fizzled and went out. Cursing, the crewman fell to his knee and scrabbled for it. His mates shook their heads and gazed wearily at the long lines of bright banners and armoured men moving into position barely a mile away.

A damp fuse. That sums up this campaign
, thought York as he turned to Salisbury.

“Go and find Andrew Trollope,” he said, “and order him to hold his ground until I say otherwise. The Lancastrians won’t dare attack when they see the Calais troops manning the barricades.”

Edward snorted in derision. “Buckingham and Somerset wouldn’t attack until the morning anyway,” he said, “neither of them have the guts or the skill to direct a night assault.”

“So says a green boy, who has never fought in a battle,” replied York, though he couldn’t help but smile at his son.

Big, blonde and brutal, Edward was like something out of Arthurian legend. Like his close friend Warwick, he radiated a natural force and aggressive confidence that York had somehow lost.

“I will have fought in one,” Edward replied stoutly, meeting his father’s gaze, “before tomorrow is out.”

The crew of the serpentine continued to fumble with their fuse, which had got wet on the grass and would not light again. York left them to it and returned to his tent to snatch some rest before the battle started.

Fatigue overwhelmed him the moment he settled in a chair and allowed his head to flop forward. He was shaken out of his slumber by the rough hand and voice of Salisbury.

“Jesus,” York muttered as his vision was filled by Salisbury’s leathery features, “what the hell do you want, Richard? Are the Lancastrians moving?”

“Much worse than that,” Salisbury said urgently.  “Trollope and the Calais contingent have defected to the King!”

The shock jerked York out of his chair. “How? When?” he demanded as he stumbled outside.

“Maybe half an hour ago,” Salisbury replied, hobbling after him. “They crossed over the barricade under cover of darkness, and the King’s troops hailed their approach. There must have been some prior arrangement.”

“Of course there was,” York snarled. “The treacherous dogs intended to betray us all along.”

He stopped and looked around at the camp-fires glimmering in the darkness. A fine mist was rising, cloaking his soldiers as they sat quietly in groups and picked at their meagre suppers. The occasional dull boom sounded as a Yorkist gun fired, their crews having received no orders to stop.

“Go and find my sons,” said York, keeping his voice low so the soldiers wouldn’t overhear, “and fetch them back to my tent, with our horses and esquires.”

Salisbury nodded, clearly understanding the duke’s intention, and limped away into the night.

5.

For Richard Bolton, the weeks following the battle at Blore Heath were a haze of pain and delirium. His lucid periods were few and far between, and these were marked by such agony to make him long to slip back into his semi-conscious state.

He was vaguely aware of the indistinct shapes of people flickering in and out of his sick chamber, fussing over him and talking in low, concerned voices that buzzed like distant wasps in his ears. They piled more blankets on him when he was cold, spooned gruel that tasted like warm paste into him, cleaned up his mess and changed his small-clothes. Richard was grateful for their care, but virtually incapable of expressing it.

At times he suffered from terrible waking dreams, in which his blurred memories of the battle conjured up images of blood-slathered ghosts locked in combat. The mangled corpses of men and horses were re-animated and performed a stiff, jerky dance before his terrified eyes, like puppets on strings.

Richard would scream and struggle to get out of bed before the demons claimed him. Firm hands pushed him back, and the soft twanging of a lute calmed him, until the visions faded and he sank back into a drugged sleep.

Music was his life-line. The gentle four- or five-note melodies, like childish lullabies, never failed to lull him and still the pain that spread like fire from his lower abdomen.

During one brief moment of lucidity, he glanced blearily to his left and saw Mauley. The old soldier was perched on a window-seat and frowning as he carefully picked out notes from a battered old lute on his lap.

“You make an unlikely angel of mercy, Mauley,” Richard croaked, wincing at the dryness in his throat.

Mauley started at the sound of his voice, put aside his lute and hurried over to the long table beside Richard’s bed.

“Dame Anne told me to play to you,” he muttered, looking embarrassed as he poured a measure of wine from a fluted jug and carefully placed the cup in Richard’s trembling hand. “God knows why, but the noises I make seem to have a calming effect.”

Richard smiled and lifted the cup to his lips. The wine had a strange herbal taste, and he guessed it was laced with some pain-dulling narcotic. He shifted uneasily on his bed, gasping as pain speared through his vitals.

“My father…” he managed, but Mauley was already dissolving before his eyes as the powerful drug took effect, and he sank back into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

When he emerged again it was to find his mother and sister sitting either side of his bed. Both women, so alike with their thin frames and long, serious faces, put him in mind of a couple of nuns mourning over a tomb. They were dressed plainly in short-sleeved black kirtles, their heads covered by white linen coifs. Mary’s pet dog, an ancient wall-eyed spaniel named Lionel, pressed against her legs and gazed quizzically at the sick man in the bed.

“Richard,” said Dame Anne, leaning forward to peer critically at him, “you are awake. Thank God.”

“I never thought to see either of you again,” he whispered, reaching for his mother’s hand. “Where has Mauley got to? He was here a moment ago. I miss his music.”

Dame Anne didn’t often smile, but now her narrow lips hitched up at the corners. “That was last week,” she said, taking his hand and gently stroking it. “You have been delirious since, or asleep. The doctor from Lichfield was here three days ago. Happily, both for you and our coffers, he may not have to visit again. Your wounds are healing, God be thanked.”

Richard passed a hand over his brow. “I feel like death,” he murmured. “So much has been a blur since the battle.”

He gazed at the arched windows above the hearth. One of them stood ajar to allow fresh air into the hall.

“We broke and ran,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “ran like whipped dogs. I got to the stream, and then…”

He frowned, trying to remember. His mother and sister tensed and exchanged anxious glances.

“I didn’t get much further,” he said eventually. “I remember there were bodies everywhere, choking the water, and blood, and rain, and arrows falling, and men and horses screaming as they fought to get away. I thought I was dead for certain, and then...”

He cautiously touched the clean linen bandage wrapped around the top of his skull. “A Yorkist must have clubbed me. I knew nothing more after that.”

“You were stabbed,” said Mary, speaking for the first time. Her voice had a soft, soothing quality, unlike the harsh grating of her mother’s, “and bled for days. It is only by the grace of God you survived.”

“God has doubly intervened,” added Dame Anne, “for He has put an end to these unhappy wars. Your fighting days are done, Richard. There will be no call to risk your life in battle again. York is vanquished. He, and Warwick, and all their fellow traitors, are scattered like the chaff they are.”

Richard gaped at her. “Vanquished?” he exclaimed. “How?”

“After the devil gained his victory at Blore Heath, the Lord put fresh heart and resolve into the King,” she replied. “The royal host chased York’s ragged band all the way to Ludford Bridge. There, instead of fighting, the craven Duke abandoned his men and ran away under cover of darkness. He fled to Ireland, taking one of his sons with him. Warwick, Salisbury and York’s other whelp have gone to Calais.”

“Thus England is swept clean of traitors, and we can all start anew,” said Mary.

Richard laid his head back against the mass of pillows. The news of York’s defeat had drained him. “After this, all seems possible,” he said. “What else? Has James sworn to follow his vows of temperance and chastity?”

His sister laughed, and held up her left hand to display a bright silver ring. The ring was studded with an emerald and inscribed with the image of a leaping stag.

“Let us not be greedy for miracles,” she said, “and here is no miracle, but the fulfilment of one man’s long-held wish. I am betrothed to Henry of Sedgley.”

Richard looked intently at her, and then at the ring. The leaping stag was Henry’s sigil, one he had chosen for himself instead of adopting a bastardized version of his father’s ducal arms.

“I have woken from a nightmare into a world of perfect happiness,” he said weakly. “Hal has been my friend since boyhood. I could not wish for a better match. But what of your old fiancé?”

“Young Huntley is a forsworn traitor,” his mother replied sternly, “along with all his kin. The Huntleys and the Ramages fought under Sir Thomas Malvern’s banner at Blore Heath, on the side of the Yorkists. In his mercy – though I would say weakness – the King has chosen to pardon all who raised arms against him, save their leaders. Our lord the Duke of Buckingham has stripped Sir Thomas of his office as justice of the peace, but that is all.”

Richard drew strength from the fierce passion in her voice. “If I were King,” she went on, “the heads of all these traitors would decorate the gates of every English city from Carlisle to London. His Majesty may pardon who he will, but I shall not permit a traitor to marry into our family. I sent Huntley a letter informing him that he may seek a wife elsewhere. Then I sent to the Bastard Stafford, to tell him his way to my daughter was clear, if he still desired her.”

Twin spots of colour appeared in Mary’s pale cheeks. “He came here and proposed marriage, in a very clumsy and forward manner,” she said, avoiding her brother’s amused gaze, “but he did it bravely, on bended knee. I am fond of him, which I was not of Huntley.”

“Besides which, we are in dire need of friends,” added her mother. “Henry may be uncouth, but he is a fighting man and loyal to Lancaster. There are not many such men left in Staffordshire.”

“While the rest of our neighbours are for York, and will now regard us with envy and hatred,” said Richard. He sighed, and tried to think through the dull pounding in his head. Perhaps he had not woken to such perfect happiness after all. “The Huntleys especially, since we have snubbed them.”

His memory chose that moment to strike him a terrible blow, and blood surged to his head as he sat bolt upright. “What of father?” he cried. “Did he survive the battle?”

His mother and sister exchanged pitying glances. “Your father is at peace,” Dame Anne said quietly. “When you are strong enough to leave your bed, you can visit his grave.”

She grasped his hand tighter. “We rescued his sword and his harness from the battlefield. They are yours now, along with the land and estates. My son, everything is now in your charge.”

“I don’t want it, any of it,” he said, fighting back tears, “I want father back.”

“For days after the battle, I wearied God with my prayers,” his mother said with unusual gentleness, “pleading for my husband to be returned to me. He didn’t listen, and I was wrong to plead. This is how God tests us, Richard, through pain and loss. At least He allowed you to live.”

Richard wiped his tears and lay silent for a moment, gathering his strength. “It is not ended,” he said eventually. “I see now that God has spared me for a purpose. Who killed my father?”

Anne shook her head, but for once her will had to bow to a greater.

“You charged me as my father’s heir,” he rasped. “Do you think that stops at property and rent-rolls? I inherit all or none, mother. Who killed him?”

“It was Malvern,” she replied in a small voice, staring at the backs of her time-ravaged hands, “so Henry told us. Sir Thomas Malvern struck your father down at Blore Heath, with the Ramages and Huntleys to aid him.”

Richard nodded slowly, savouring the names. “Malvern, Ramage and Huntley,” he said. “Royal pardon or no, they are marked men.”