Trinity (8 page)

Ahead of him, Thomas saw two burly men stand up suddenly, appearing out of the gorse and bushes. He saw them bend longbows and jerked his shield up, rocked back an instant later as a shaft struck it with a loud crack. The other disappeared past him, causing someone to cry out in pain or shock behind. Trunning was bellowing an order, but the line was already moving. Archers had to be charged and the line of horsemen surged ahead of those on foot, shields held high and visors down, swords ready to strike. Thomas felt excitement swell as he used his spurs to send his huge black horse into a plunging canter.

The two archers tried to dodge, throwing themselves to the ground as the first horsemen closed the distance. Thomas saw them in a cloud of dust, scrabbling desperately to fend off hooves and a sword-blow as a knight galloped over them. Then they were behind, left for the axemen to cut as they raced up.

He was riding hard by then, the line of armoured knights growing ragged as they encountered the natural obstacles of the land. Thomas felt his mount bunch and guided it over a thornbush, clipping it with its hooves so that the thing quivered in his wake. He adjusted his shield and leaned back, slowing the pace so that he would not get too far ahead. The Nevilles were there, just eight hundred yards or so away, looking small and weak against the pounding line of horses.

‘Lord Egremont! Slow down, you stupid …’

Thomas looked around in fury as Trunning’s horse cut across him. The man had the impertinence to take hold of his reins and yank on them.

‘Take your hands off!’ Thomas snarled at him. He looked around then and saw that he had left his main force far behind.

Trunning removed his grip, raising his visor and mastering his anger with some difficulty.

‘My lord, you’ll have them all blown, trying to keep you in sight. Half a mile is too far to run in mail. Where are your wits! Did those archers break your courage? Whisht, man, there aren’t so many now.’

Thomas felt an almost overpowering desire to cut Trunning from his saddle. If he’d thought his father’s man could have been surprised he might have risked it, but Trunning was a veteran, always ready to leap away or attack. Even the swordmaster’s horse seemed to skitter in small steps from side to side, the old bag of bones as used to the clash of arms as its master. Thomas knew by then that Trunning was right to have halted him, but the words still stung and he could hardly see for rage.

‘See to the men, Trunning. Shout and order them as you please, but I’ll have your head on a
pike
if you dare touch my reins again.’

To his disgust, Trunning merely grinned and pointed at the Neville force.

‘The enemy lies over there, Lord Egremont, if you are uncertain. Not here.’

‘I sometimes wonder, you pompous little whoreson,’ Thomas snapped. At least he’d scored a point with his father’s man. Trunning’s face darkened and he opened his mouth to reply, then ducked suddenly from some instinct as arrows flew around them, sent from both sides. Thomas swore, seeing two archers in jerkins of silver and red fall with arrows through their chests. He raised a hand in thanks to the pair of his men who had brought them down. They touched their forelocks to him, loping on.

‘Close up!’ Trunning roared. ‘Close on Egremont! Here!’

The lines reformed around Thomas as he sat his saddle and fumed. He could hear the rasping breath of the men-at-arms as they reached him. They were panting hard in the thick morning warmth and it galled to know Trunning had been right, as always.

‘Stand here and rest,’ Thomas called to them, seeing relief flood their faces. ‘Take water and wait. We are three times their number, can you see?’

When they had settled, he walked them all forward, his mount stepping gingerly over the bodies of dead archers as they came across them, each one lying alone with arrows standing like bristles in his flesh. Thomas could still hear the clatter of bows across the shrinking strip between the two forces, but he thought there were more bodies in Neville colours than his own grey men.

All the time he had been racing about in the meadows with the horsemen and Trunning, the Nevilles had stood still, waiting for him. As his men settled down to a slow walk, he saw their line suddenly leap forward, coming in a rush. Thomas blinked. The Nevilles were so badly outnumbered, it was suicide to come out to where he could surround and destroy them. He had assumed Salisbury would dig in and defend his camp for as long as he could, perhaps while the man sent riders to summon aid. For them to attack made no sense at all.

‘Archers! Sight on the front ranks!’ he heard Trunning yell. It made Thomas’s spirits soar to see a dozen hidden men lurch up from the long grass, abandoning the savage game with the Neville bowmen to respond to Trunning’s order. As soon as they left cover, Neville archers leaped up in turn and arrows flew once more: short, chopping blows that snatched them from their feet. The toll was appalling on both sides, but Thomas could see six or eight of his bowmen survived to take aim at the Neville line. It was too late for them to run, and they shot volley after volley until they were engulfed.

With a great roar, Salisbury’s knights rode over those who stung them, horses and men crashing down together, falling behind. Not two hundred yards separated the forces then and Thomas felt his mouth dry and his bladder swell. They moved well, those Neville horsemen. Thomas swallowed nervously, understanding at last that he faced Salisbury’s own guard. A quick glance to the left and right reassured him. He had the width of the line. He had the numbers. Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont, raised his arm for one glorious moment and then Trunning gave the order to charge before he could, the treacherous little bastard.

4

Richard of York was in a fine, expansive mood. The day was hot, with an odour of plaster and stone dust in the air. The Painted Chamber in the Palace of Westminster was centuries old, with a dark red ceiling that was cracked right along its length and almost always damp. For once, it had dried, and the smell was quite pleasant.

York sat back as a piece of parchment as long as his arm was passed around the long table. Each of the seated men paused reverently as he received it, reading again the words that would make Edward of Westminster both the Prince of Wales and the heir to the English throne. More than one of the gathered lords sneaked glances from under lowered brows at York, trying to discern his deeper game. Edmund Beaufort, Earl Somerset, made them all wait as he read the formal declaration from the beginning once again, searching for something he had missed.

The silence grew strained as they all waited for Somerset to take up the quill and sign his name. Nearby, the Westminster bell was struck for noon, the notes booming through the corridors. York cleared his throat, making Somerset look up sharply.

‘You were present as this was written, my lord,’ York said. ‘Are you unhappy as to its purpose? Its effect?’

Somerset pushed his tongue between his top lip and his teeth, his mouth twisting. There was no subtle clause he could see, no clever wording to deny King Henry’s son his rights of blood and inheritance. Yet he could not escape the suspicion that he had missed something. York surely gained nothing by allowing the line of Lancaster to go on for another generation. If there was ever a time to declare for the throne, Somerset was certain it was that very moment. King Henry was still senseless, witless, drowned in fog. York had ruled in the king’s name for more than a year with neither disasters nor invasion from France, beyond the usual raids on shipping and the coastal towns. Somerset was only too aware that York’s popularity was growing. Yet there it was, on papers Parliament had witnessed and passed on for the Lords and of course York himself to sign, seal and make law. The men in that room would confirm a baby boy as the future king of England. Somerset shook his head irritably as two more barons cleared their throats, wanting to move on to lunch and the afternoon.

‘This has been four months in the making,’ Somerset said without looking up. ‘You’ll wait a moment more while I read it through again.’

York sighed audibly, settling back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling high above. He could see the mud nest of a swallow in the rafters, some valiant or perhaps foolish little bird who had chosen that room to raise its young. York thought he could see a flicker of movement at the entrance hole and fixed his gaze on it, content to wait.

‘The boy Edward will be invested in Windsor,’ Somerset said aloud. ‘There is no mention here of regents while he grows.’

York smiled.

‘His father is still king, Edmund. Appointing a regent would be an error twice-over. I have agreed to protect and defend the kingdom for the duration of King Henry’s illness. Would you have me appoint a third man, or a fourth? Perhaps you would have us all ruling England by the time you are done.’

Chuckles echoed his words around the table, while Somerset glowered.

‘King Henry will wake from whatever presses him down,’ he replied. ‘Where will you be then, my lord York?’

‘I pray for it,’ York said, his eyes showing only amusement. ‘I have services said every day that I may lay down the terrible burden of my authority. My father’s line may come from King Edward, but the sons of John of Gaunt stand before mine. I have not desired the throne, Edmund. All I have done is to keep England safe and whole, that small thing, while her king dreams.
I
am not the father to this child, only his Protector.’

There was a subtle emphasis in his final words and though Somerset knew York sought to goad him, he bristled even so, his right fist clenching on the table. He had heard the rumours drifting through the Lords and the Commons. Such whispers were beneath contempt, sprung from the wicked desire to ruin Queen Margaret and deny her son his rightful place. With a muttered curse, Somerset snatched up a quill and signed his name with a flourish, allowing the scribes in attendance to take the scroll from him and sand the ink before passing it at last to York.

Perhaps to infuriate the older man, York let his own gaze pass slowly over the words in turn. It was not a moment to rush and he scratched his neck as he read, sensing the amusement in the other men and the simmering anger in the duke across from him. In truth, York had considered delaying the passage of the discussions in Parliament even further. If King Henry passed from the world before it was signed and sealed, York was at that moment the royal heir. He had been made so by statute four years before, when it had seemed the queen was barren, or the king unable to perform his duties.

The thought was a pinch in his mind, even then, that only his own signature lay between himself and the Crown. Yet Salisbury had persuaded him. The head of the Neville family knew better than anyone how to manage power and secure it for those of his own blood. It was most gratifying to see all that Neville intellect and cunning employed to his advantage, York mused as he read. When he had married Cecily Neville, the house of York had gained the strength of a clan and bloodline so wide and varied that they would surely come to rule, regardless of the married names or the particular coat of arms. He was only grateful that they had decided upon York as their champion. A man standing with Nevilles could rise far, it seemed. Standing against them, poor devils like Somerset could not rise at all.

York nodded at last, satisfied. He took up his own quill and dipped it, adding his name to the end of the list and continuing on in decorative swirls, showing his pleasure.

It was too early to declare for the throne, Salisbury had convinced him of that. Too many of the king’s noblemen would take up arms without a second thought, the moment a usurper made himself known. Step by step, the path lay ahead of him, if he chose to walk it. The life of a newborn was a delicate thing. York had lost five of his own to distempers and chills.

He smiled at the scribe setting lead weights on the corners of the scroll. As Protector, the Great Seal of the throne of England was his to use, the final stage. Four common men had stood by for the entire discussion, heads bowed and waiting for the part they had to play. When York nodded to them, they approached the table, laying out the two halves of the silver Seal and collecting a bowl of wax from where it had been warmed to liquid over a tiny brazier. All the men there watched as the Royal Seal clicked together and the image of King Henry on his throne was covered over in blue wax. One of the men, the Chaff-wax, used a small knife to trim the disc as it formed and began to cool, while another laid lengths of ribbon on the document itself. It was the work of skilled craftsmen and those present watched with interest as the warm disc was upturned and pressed on to the parchment, staining the page with oil. The halves were lifted away and a thin four-inch medal of wax remained, pressed down on to the ribbons until it could not be removed without ripping the paper or breaking the seal itself.

It was done. The bearers of the Seal busied themselves clearing away the tools of their trade, placing the silver halves back into silk bags and then a locked box of the same polished metal. After bowing to the Protector, they trooped out in silence, their part finished.

York rose, clapping his hands together. ‘There is a child made Prince of Wales, heir to the throne. My lords, I am proud of England today, as proud as a father of his own son.’

He looked to Somerset, his eyes bright. Even then, Somerset might have ignored it if one of the others hadn’t laughed aloud. Stung, the earl dropped his hand to his sword’s hilt, facing York across the table.

‘Explain your meaning, Richard. If you have the courage to accuse a man of dishonour and treason, do so clearly, without French games.’

York smiled more widely, shaking his head.

‘You mistake me, Edmund. Let your choler bleed away! This is a day of joy, with King Henry’s line secured.’

‘No,’ Somerset replied, his voice deepening and growing hoarse. He was forty-eight years old, but he had not grown weak or stooped as his hair greyed. He rose slowly from his chair with his shoulders squared, his anger pushing him on. ‘I believe I will have satisfaction, Richard. If you would speak false rumours, you must also defend them. God and my right arm shall surely decide the outcome. Now apologize and beg my forgiveness, or I will see you tomorrow dawn, in the yard outside.’