Trinity (45 page)

The rain and blustering wind had been almost incessant, dripping through the trees on either side of the road, dampening the spirits of the men and making their clothes and cloaks as heavy as armour. Yet when York breathed in, it was air he had known before, sometimes driven hard into his lungs. All the politics and problems of London fell behind and he was enjoying the company of Salisbury, with no more concern than putting a good number of miles behind them each day. Food was scarce and after eight days of eating little, York could pat his stomach and take pleasure from the trim muscle, losing some of the thickness that had bedevilled the previous few years. He felt strong and alert, so much so that it was almost a shame to be taking his men against a hostile army. For all the goodwill he felt, that fact lay over his best moods like a shroud.

He and Salisbury had picked up another four hundred men from their own estates as they passed close to them, often single manors long owned by their families and restored after the Attainders had been revoked. York’s second son, Edmund, Earl of Rutland, had been among them, seventeen and as proud as the devil to have the chance to march and fight at his father’s side. Edmund did not have the height or massive frame of his elder brother, but he resembled his father with black hair and dark eyes and stood an inch taller than York. His father greeted his arrival with a shout of joy, though in private, he told Salisbury it felt like Cecily had her eyes on him, through the boy.

York and Salisbury used any spare mounts as scout horses, placing men back along the roads to London and west towards the borders of Wales. Others rode ten miles ahead of them in groups of three riders at a time, so that at least one would survive an ambush and be able to race back. In hostile country, it was the merest sense to have far-ranging riders out before them, like dragonflies swinging back and forth at all hours, taking orders and passing on news of the land ahead. Each day extended the lines, so that when Warwick returned to London in the south, that news was six days old by the time it reached Salisbury. Warwick was coming north behind them with the men of Kent, drawn from their families and grumbling the whole way, judging by the few terse lines he sent to his father.

Edward of March was even more laconic, when his message reached them. He reported nothing from Ludlow castle, simply acknowledging that he was in position and passing on his mother’s love. York had smiled to himself as he read the single line signed ‘E. March’, imagining his son torn between the responsibility of leading an army, all the while enduring his mother’s instructions. Nonetheless, York was satisfied. They were all out. Despite the rain and the dark and the cold, he had three armies in the field, ready to crush any forces Queen Margaret might have raised. He was almost ready to bless his enemies for gathering in one place, even in winter, where he could break them all at once. The year was ending and York felt the rightness of it. By the time spring came, he would have all England under his hand.

He thought then of a lonely young man in the bishop’s palace, no doubt reading by his lamp. York shook his head to free it of the image. Henry’s fate was a knot untied and he knew he was not finished with the king. Yet for the moment, he would look only ahead.

Having scouts so far out meant it was impossible for York and Salisbury to be surprised. Neither man saw anything unusual in the galloping squire lashing his reins back and forth to drive his flagging horse back to their ranks. As they’d passed the town of Sheffield, seat of the Earl of Shrewsbury, York had entered lands he knew particularly well, from childhood on. The great city of York lay just two days to the north and he felt like he’d come home. His men allowed the scout through as they had done many times before. Most had nothing new to report and York greeted him with a smile as the young man dismounted and bowed. The scout was oddly pale and wet with perspiration, but York merely raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to settle himself.

‘My lord, there is a great host by the city of York, ahead. An army such as I have never seen.’

They were passing through a stretch of dark woodland, the road just a broken thread with half the stones missing. Trees encroached on both sides, sometimes growing right through the Roman slabs. York saw Salisbury turn his horse back, coming close enough to hear.

‘It seems this young man has found our quarry,’ York said, forcing lightness into his voice. ‘Where are your companions?’

‘My lord, I-I don’t know. We saw they had their own scouts out and after that it was all fast riding. I lost sight of them.’ Without conscious thought, the young man patted the neck of his mount with a trembling hand, the animal lathered with long strings of spit flung back from the muzzle.

‘How close did you come before you turned back?’ York asked. To his surprise, the young man flushed, as if his courage had been questioned. ‘Just tell me what you saw.’ He and Salisbury had made a point of choosing only scouts who could count, or at least estimate large numbers. York watched impatiently as the young man twitched his fingers and muttered under his breath.

‘They were in three battles, my lord. Three big squares, camped by the city. Each one was near s-six thousand men, if I’m any judge. A little less, perhaps, but I would say they had eighteen thousand, all told.’

York swallowed, feeling a shudder run down his back. He had faced almost as many at Ludlow, but the king’s nobles had lost thousands since then, as well as the leadership of men like Buckingham and Egremont. He felt a touch of despair at the thought of such a host. The queen and her noblemen seemed to raise armies like swarms of locusts wherever they went. York glanced at Salisbury and saw the older man glowering at him. The king’s name was a powerful aid to recruitment, in his absence, or more likely because of it. York did not meet Salisbury’s eyes, thinking hard as the scout stared.

‘They’ll know we are coming if the scouts crossed,’ Salisbury said suddenly. ‘How long ago was this?’

The young squire seemed relieved to look away from the pain on York’s face.

‘I saw them yesterday morning, my lord. I had to take a wide line to get past the riders coming after me, but it cannot be more than twenty, maybe thirty miles. I do not go out further.’

‘And they’ve had a full day to come south, if they marched as soon as our scouts were seen.’

‘No,’ York said. ‘We have other scouts at six and twelve miles. None of them have come back in with sightings. The queen’s army has not moved, or at least not quickly.’

‘It is too many, Richard, even so,’ Salisbury said softly.

York glared at him, taking a moment to dismiss the panting scout and order another out in his path. He needed his dragonflies more than ever at that moment, with such a multitude out against him.

‘No, it’s not,’ York said firmly. ‘Even if winter stole the heart from half the Kentish men, Warwick will bring six thousand – or many more. My son has three thousand with him.’ York spoke dully, thinking through the odds.

If he called Edward back, there would be no one on the Welsh border to stand against the Tudors. Everything depended on how many marched with Warwick – and how far away they were. York cursed softly to himself, and Salisbury nodded.

‘We need a stronghold,’ Salisbury said. ‘Somewhere safe while we wait. Middleham is too far and too small for eight thousand men.’

‘Sandal, then,’ York said. ‘It lies no more than four leagues from where we stand.’

‘And it may have been passed already, by the queen’s army,’ Salisbury said. ‘I’d rather go west or north, perhaps back to Ludlow, even.’

‘They’d run us down before we reached it.’ York rubbed his face hard, as if to bring some life back to his flesh. ‘And I will not tempt fate to repeat itself. No. None of our other scouts have come in. We can reach Sandal Castle. It’s an island almost, a fortress on a hill and simple to defend. It will do.’

‘I do not like the risk,’ Salisbury said firmly. ‘You’d have me head straight towards an enemy of twice our number.’

He started in surprise when York laughed and breathed in sharply, filling his chest.

‘I am
home
. They have made me march through storms and rain and I am only stronger for all of it. This year is ending – and this last, great hunt with it. Sandal is just a few miles away. I do not fear your “risk”, or the movements of my enemies, no matter how many they have brought.’ York shook his head in saturnine amusement. ‘I will
not
run. Not today, or any day. Being forced to leave Ludlow was enough for one lifetime. I tell you, they will not see my back again.’

His eyes were cold as he waited for a reply, wondering if Salisbury would continue to argue, while time they needed drained away.

‘Four leagues to Sandal? You are certain? Twelve miles?’ Salisbury said at last. York smiled at his friend.

‘No more than that, I swear it. I used to ride from York to the market in Sheffield when I was a boy, travelling with your father. I
know
these lands. We’ll be safe within Sandal’s walls before the sun even begins to set.’

‘Then increase the pace,’ Salisbury replied. ‘We cannot make the sun stand still.’

The army camped outside the city of York was the largest Derry Brewer had ever seen, just about. Even so, he continued to fret, worrying at an infected scratch on a finger with his teeth, pressing against the hot flesh and spitting when bitterness seeped into his mouth. Stormclouds lay above the vast fields of tents and men, all suffering in the constant damp. They had dug trenches for their waste, only to see them flood on a single night of heavy rain, producing a stream of filth that ran through the camp, mingling with standing water. Sickness was spreading through them as well, so that at any moment, there would be a few hundred men groaning as they emptied their bowels with their hose or Gallic breeches down by their ankles. For some reason, the Scots were suffering worse than the other men, reduced to misery by the strange purge and as weak as children while it burned through them.

Derry dismounted at the edge of the queen’s pavilion, the largest single structure on the plain. He passed the reins of Retribution to a servant, taking a moment to explain the horse’s desperate desire for a wizened winter apple, if such a thing could be found. Derry showed the boy a silver penny as a promise and went in to the war council, hearing the voices of Margaret and her lords while he was still paces away.

Inside, the noise of rain was much louder. The tent leaked in a dozen places, dripping into pots in dull tones and making the air thick with moisture. Field braziers stood on soaked groundcloth, raising wisps of mist and adding the pungent smoke of charcoal and crackling green wood to the atmosphere. Derry draped his cloak along a bench, almost unnoticed as he left it to dry and came to listen.

Lord Clifford was in the middle of the discussion, a short, fine-boned man with a delicate moustache that would need trimming every single day to keep its shape. Though Clifford was only one of a dozen minor barons in that multitude, he had been brazen in using his father’s death at St Albans with men like Somerset and Percy. For that shared loss, they had granted Clifford a seat at their table and authority far beyond whatever was merited by his rank.

Derry didn’t like the man, at all. The young baron had a tendency to talk over him, as if his opinion was utterly worthless. It would always have been hard to respect such a man but, as it happened, Derry had made no special effort to learn the trick of it.

Standing on the outskirts, Derry wondered if it was intentional that the group of noblemen all faced the queen, as if she were the fire that warmed them all. He noted the enormous red-bearded Scot standing by her shoulder as a guard. The man was impassive, but he was listening closely enough to those who would eventually order his companions into battle.

Derry took in every detail in a brief glance, settling himself and ignoring the smell of illness and weak bowels that hung in the air, along with damp wool and rotting leather. At least it was warm, he thought gratefully.

‘If York has brought the king north, it will be as a prisoner,’ Clifford was saying. ‘I’ve instructed my captains to ignore any royal banners, if they see them. They know King Henry would never march against his wife and son, so I do not fear desertion. Such men are happier with simple instructions, as you know. Yet they are resolute, my lady. I think the sight of lions on the battlefield will raise their spirits, confirm to them that they are rescuing King Henry. Let us pray that York
has
brought him forth! It will give the men heart.’

Margaret noticed Derry Brewer edging closer. She beckoned him in, ignoring Clifford’s exasperated grunt as Somerset and Percy allowed him to the front of their group.

‘What news, Master Brewer?’

‘There is some sickness in the camp still, my lady, but fewer men affected today than yesterday. I’ve seen such things in France, but as yet we have lost only a few of the weakest men. I think it will burn out rather than spread further, God willing. I sent the worst sixty or so back to the city to rest, with orders for them to be given broth and ale. I had to insist on “one in one out” after that, or we’d have the whole army resting up in the warm.’ He glanced up at the impassive stare of the Scotsman at her shoulder. ‘The Scottish lads refused to go, my lady. It seems they prefer to treat their own ailments.’

Expressionless, the big man nodded to him, just a fraction, making Derry smile.

‘Does this man have nothing more important to report?’ Lord Clifford said suddenly, his voice too loud for the confined space. ‘We know there is sickness in the camp, Brewer. I imagine there are thieves as well, stealing the kit of their friends. What of it?’ He looked around at the others, as if he expected them to throw Derry out into the rain.

Somerset shook his head, choosing to ignore the outburst for more pressing business.

‘We await the order to march, my lady. Will it be today? It takes some time to pack up the camp and the light is already fading. I’d like the men to be ready to move.’

Silence came in the tent, as every man there turned to catch Margaret’s reply. Twin frown lines appeared between her eyes and Derry noted she picked at the skin of a thumbnail with the second finger of her right hand as she stood there. He understood her worry, with so many senior lords looking to her. She had
insisted
on their obedience, forcing her rank and right to do so down their throats. This was the price, that she had to give an order that might send them all to their deaths. Every man there had some personal reason for taking the field against York, but the responsibility was hers, for her husband and her son.