Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (21 page)

‘Yes, I see it. But you will tell me anyway,’ Edward replied, turning back to the window once more with a sullen expression.

Warwick’s mouth tightened, feeling an old surge of impotent anger. He was absolutely certain of the best path, yet completely unable to force it on a man who was
his superior in arms and status. Edward was not stupid, Warwick reminded himself. He was merely as bull-headed, ruthless and self-regarding as the falcons he flew.

Earl Sir John Neville had reason to be satisfied with his life. After Towton, King Edward had included him in the Order of the Garter, making him one of a select band of knights who could always reach the king and be heard. It had been his father’s own place in the order and John had felt immense pride to be able to add the Garter legend to his crest: ‘
HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE
’ – ‘Evil be to him who evil thinks’. That had been a great honour, but it paled to nothing compared with being made lord of Alnwick Castle.

The earls of Northumberland had been one of seven kings once, before Athelstan united them all into England. It was one of the largest landholdings in the country – and it had fallen to the Neville family over the Percy line. There was no other title that could possibly have meant so much to a man who had fought against the Percy father and sons. John Neville had survived a Percy attack on his own wedding. He had watched the elder Percy earl die at St Albans. One by one, the lords of the north had fallen. It was a constant joy to know that the last heir languished in the Tower of London, while a Neville strode the battlements at Alnwick and used their maids for sport.

He had been cruel to the retainers, it was true, weeding out the ones he did not trust and leaving them to starve without work. It was always hard when a new lord replaced an old line. Hard, but the victory of better blood, in his humble opinion.

In return for that generosity, the new Earl of Northum
berland had ridden and worked for three years to winkle out every last hiding place of Lancastrian support. He was directly responsible for the execution of more than a hundred men and found he enjoyed the work. With his troop of sixty veteran men-at-arms, John Neville followed rumours and paid informers, much as he imagined Derry Brewer had done before him.

That was one man he would have liked to see again. The letter ‘T’ that Brewer had carved had scarred thick and pink on the back of his hand. The cut had been so deep that John Neville found it hard to hold an eating knife and his fingers could be shocked open at the lightest blow. Still, for all that had been taken from him, he had been given more. He did not count the cost of his good fortune.

Lord Somerset had lost his head stretched on a tree stump, pulled out from the basement where he had hidden from loyal Yorkist men. John Neville smiled in memory of the man’s spitting fury. It was extraordinary how those Lancaster lords and knights would creep into the earth to hide from their just fates. Sir William Tailboys had been caught in a coal pit and dragged out coughing and black with dust. Dozens more had been tracked and found, or betrayed for coin or vengeance. His work consumed him and he knew that he would rue the day it came to an end. Peace had never brought John Neville the satisfactions and rewards of war.

His only regret was coming so close to taking King Henry himself. He was certain the king was still in England. There were rumours of a dozen sightings in the north, particularly round Lancashire. John Neville and his men had found a cap with a Lancaster crest in an abandoned castle just two weeks before. He could almost feel
the tracks getting fresher and the men hiding the king growing more desperate as he drew closer, following every scent and whisper. He might have left that last task to others, but he wanted to be there at the end. The truth was that he enjoyed hunting men more than deer, wolves or boar. There was more sport in those who understood the stakes and would fight as easily as run.

The earl kept a tight rein on his excitement as he followed the broken road through Clitheroe Woods. It made sense that King Henry would be safest in Lancashire. His family name came from the ancient Lancaster fortress in the north-west, one of the largest castles in England. Lancashire was Henry’s heartland, perhaps more than anywhere. Yet the Tempest family had still betrayed him, whether out of loyalty to York or promise of later reward, John Neville neither knew nor cared.

When he had arrived at the Tempest manor house, King Henry had been spirited away from his rooms. Three of the king’s attendants had escaped with him: two chaplains and a squire. How far could they have travelled in just a day, if the Tempest sons had told the truth? John Neville had men who could follow a man’s steps well enough, sheriff’s men well used to tracking down felons who ran. Even on rough roads baked hard in that summer heat, it had not taken them long to pick up one trail over all the others. A group of four, with just one on horseback. There could not have been too many groups of that kind.

The Earl of Northumberland looked up as green shadows moved in bars across his face. He did not like deep forest, where brigands and traitors hid. He was a man who preferred open spaces, where the wind could howl. He was well suited to Northumberland, with its wilderness
and valleys and raw hills that stirred his soul. Yet he had to follow where the tracks led; that was his duty.

He murmured low orders, bringing eight crossbowmen to the fore and half a dozen more in good armour close around him, though it was hard to go faster than a walking pace in the brambles and the bracken. As the light faded into shadowed gloom, John Neville sent his two best trackers ranging far ahead, a pair of Suffolk brothers who could not read or write and rarely spoke, even to each other. They sniffed the air like hounds as they went and seemed to know all the tricks of prey, dark and brutish as they were. At night, they slept curled up in each other’s arms, and in truth, their master suspected some foul intimacy between them. Flogging them had no effect, as they merely endured and stared with dull resentment, useless for work for days after.

The brothers vanished into the green ahead, while his hunters hacked and slashed through foliage. There were animal paths in places, formed by deer or foxes over years. They were too narrow for armoured horsemen and the going was slow and infuriating, as if the forest itself was trying to prevent his progress. John Neville set his jaw in anger. If that were the case, if the trees themselves wished him to leave, he would
still
press on and do his duty to King Edward, who had raised him beyond his wildest dreams and answered all his prayers.

His foot had tangled in some thorny vine. With a muttered oath, he yanked at it. Ahead, he heard an owl hoot and his head came up with a jerk. The Suffolk lads made that call when they had seen something and did not want to send it racing away. John Neville used his dagger to saw his boot free. He could not help the crackle of dead leaves,
though they were not hunting deer, who would surely have vanished by then. His men cut aside the worst of the bushes and he made his way up until he could see the two grubby young men lying flat and looking over falling ground.

The Neville lord could hear a river beyond and he dismounted, creeping forward as quietly as he could manage. Both the Suffolk lads turned to grin at him, though they had only a few teeth between them, and those rotten. He ignored them, peering through the leaves of a birch clinging to the bank with its roots half exposed. The trunk shuddered as he leaned on it, weak enough to fall at any moment.

Not forty yards away, King Henry of England was crossing the river, stepping from one stone to another with a man before and behind him, holding their arms outstretched in case he fell. The king was smiling, delighted by the sunlight on the water and the wide river itself, with brown trout showing between the stones and darting away. As John Neville watched in astonishment, King Henry pointed delightedly at one of them passing beneath him.

John Neville stood up and walked out of the foliage. He reached the water and did not hesitate, stepping into the flow and striding across it, sending up sheets of spray. The flowing river reached barely to his knees and he kept his eyes on the king and his helpers.

One of them dropped a hand to a dagger at his belt. The Neville lord glanced over at him, touching the sword on his hip with unmistakable meaning. The squire let his hand fall and stood like a beaten dog, miserable and afraid. John Neville grabbed King Henry by his upper arm, making him cry out in surprise and pain.

‘I lay hands on you, Henry of Lancaster. You will come with me now.’

For an instant, John Neville glared at the two chaplains. They could see armed men spreading out along the river banks and they were a long way from the road and the law. They knew very well that their lives were not worth a straw at that moment. Both men crossed themselves and prayed in a stream of whispered Latin. They stood with heads bowed, not daring to look up.

John Neville made a disgusted sound and pulled Henry through the shallows with him, half dragging the king back to the bank.

‘This is the third time you have been captured,’ the Neville lord said, as he pulled Henry up the muddy slope.

The king looked utterly confused, to the point of tears. With a sudden growl, his captor slapped his face hard. The king looked at him in wonder and dismay, his wits sharpening so that life came back to his eyes.

‘Why would you strike me? Criminal! How can you dare … ? Where is Squire Evenson? Father Geoffrey? Father Elias?’

No one answered him, though he repeated the names over and over in his fear. One of the Neville men-at-arms helped him to mount, then tied Henry’s feet to stirrups so that he could not fall. They led his horse back along the path they had cut into the green forest, until they reached the end of the trees and saw the road ahead.

Warwick frowned, shaking his head at the two servants trying to catch his attention. Either one had the potential to embarrass him, which was why he had been so stern with his instructions before bringing them to London. Both were dressed in livery of dark red and white, the colours of his house. The older of the two was Henry Percy, last son of the line of Northumberland earls. The boy had lost his father, his grandfather and his uncle in the wars, before his entire family was attainted and the title he might have inherited given away. The truth was that on his return from Towton, Richard Neville had not found it in him to abandon a sobbing fourteen-year-old in the Tower of London. The Percy lad had been pathetically grateful and served him ever since as a squire, ready at his call.

It had been the obvious thing to have the boy train with Richard, Duke of Gloucester, still too young for his title. Warwick found himself sweating as he tried not to see the smaller lad leaning in to catch his attention. Both of them were stifling laughter, their eyes bright. Warwick swung between irritation and indulgence at their antics. The two noisy youths had caused extraordinary bouts of chaos in Middleham Castle. They woke the household regularly with their yelling. On one occasion, they had to be coaxed down from the highest part of the roof, where they had tried to stage a sword fight and almost fallen to their deaths. They ate a prodigious amount and tormented the maids
with captured foxes and stag beetles smuggled in from the woods. Even so, Warwick had not come to regret the impulse to tutor either one of them. He had no sons of his own. When he was at home and the peace of Middleham was interrupted by them crashing about, it made him wistful and a little sad. His mother or his wife would catch his eye then and take him into a misty embrace, laughing all the while. Then they would interrogate the boys and take a stick to whichever one had brought about that day’s destruction.

Surrounded by the delegation from the French court, Warwick ignored both lads bobbing away like sparrows on the outskirts. Whatever it was could surely wait and it was time they learned a little patience. He turned his back.

Feeling other eyes on him, he bowed over his wine cup to the head of the group, Ambassador Lalonde. The man was ancient, leaning on a silver cane with his shoulders humped over, though that was not what held Warwick rapt in fascination. At intervals, the old man would pass his wine to a personal servant, then take out a pot of some unguent from a pouch at his waist, dipping a finger before smearing it across a line of pale yellow teeth that sat too prominently in his mouth. Warwick could not decide if they were made from the real teeth of dead men, as he had once heard described, or carved in ivory, with some dark wood shaped and drilled and set with wire to hold them. The results were extraordinary, slipping and chuckling through the ambassador’s speech, so that already old-fashioned French became completely incomprehensible.

Warwick could only wait and stare as the old man greased his false teeth to his complete satisfaction, so
that his lips slid smoothly across the surface once again. As the ambassador’s serving man handed back his drink, Warwick was astonished to feel a touch on his arm. He turned to see Henry Percy standing there, his face bright pink. With the French party watching every move he made, Warwick could only smile, as if he had asked to be interrupted.

‘This is important? Yes?’

The young man ducked his head, clearly nervous in the company of such strangers. Warwick relaxed a fraction. It occurred to him that his French guests would not expect a common servant to speak their tongue. Yet the Percy heir had been raised with a French tutor and spoke the language with perfect fluency. He considered leaving the lad near the ambassador to overhear their private conversation. For the moment, though, he could see something had the young man bursting to speak. Warwick took Percy by the arm and began to guide him to the edge of the room. As he moved, he saw two of the French party bending to speak to their own breathless servants, with yet a third rushing in to bow before his master.

Something was happening. Warwick had never doubted some of the French servants were spies or informers, along with those who could make sketches of faces and the lie of a river. Every delegation from France was the same, just as it was when England sent men across the Channel for formal events.

Ambassador Lalonde turned his teeth away to watch the progress of the French servants. Warwick took a firmer grip on the boy’s arm, steering him to where Richard of Gloucester waited by the open doors of the hall, away from the closest French ears.

‘What is it?’ Warwick hissed. ‘Come on,
one
of you. Quickly now!’

‘Your brother, my lord,’ Henry Percy said. ‘Earl Sir John. He has the king in his custody by St Paul’s, at the Ludgate.’

‘What madness is this? Why would my brother … ? Wait … King Henry?’

‘As a prisoner,’ Gloucester said, his voice breaking high. ‘Your brother’s man came running and we said we’d carry the word to you. He’s waiting outside.’

‘I see. Then you have both done well,’ Warwick said.

He had to struggle to keep his expression blank under the scrutiny of all those trying to pretend they were not watching him. He looked back at the French ambassador and the thirty-six men who had landed just two mornings before. King Edward was due to arrive amongst them at noon, to greet them all and show them what a fine, healthy young male he was, unmarked, unscarred and looking forward to reigning England for half a century. It would all find its way back to the pink and shell-like ears of the French king.

‘Tell my brother’s man I am coming now,’ Warwick said, sending Edward’s younger brother away with a push. The Percy boy followed as Warwick shooed him out in turn, distracted. He could see the news spreading through the group. There was nothing he could do about that, except keep them in that hall.

‘My lords,
gentlemen
,’ Warwick announced, using his best parade voice. Silence fell and they turned to him, some with suspicion, others in carefully blank interest. ‘With regret, I am summoned. I must attend His Majesty, King Edward, for an hour, perhaps less.’

Warwick snapped his fingers to three servants and
muttered quick instructions to them before raising his voice once more.

‘Please continue to enjoy this fine claret and the cold meats. More will be brought. These servants would be honoured to show you the chamber where our Parliament sits, and perhaps … the river …’

He had run out of further inspiration, so bowed deeply to Ambassador Lalonde and turned to go. Warwick stopped once more at the door to warn the master-at-arms not to let anyone leave. As he raced away, he heard a furious argument begin as the French servants discovered they would not be allowed to follow.

Warwick’s horse was still in the finery his staff had arranged for greeting the French, with a red-and-gold headpiece that stretched right down its neck, leaving only the horse’s eyes uncovered. The animal didn’t like the garment and snorted constantly, shaking its head in irritation as he rode along the river path to the city proper. In response, he kicked his mount to a gallop, throwing up clods of muck and scattering children and mothers as he went, so that they either screeched in anger or whooped in joy behind him.

By the time he reached the stone bridge over the Fleet and saw Ludgate open before him, Warwick was spattered with mud, from his boots to his cheeks. He was pleased to see that his brother’s troop of hunters had not yet entered the city, seemingly content to wait for him.

From some way off, Warwick had recognized the dark cloak his brother John wore over silver armour, as well as the slight, slumped figure within his arm’s reach. Warwick observed his brother’s pride as well, unmistakable in the set of his chest and shoulders.

Walking his horse the final few paces, Warwick approached the troop, John Neville’s hard-bitten men parting before him. Warwick knew their reputation was deserved, though if they hoped to make him nervous with cold stares, he had eyes only for the king.

Henry had not been well treated, that was clear enough. The king’s feet were tied to his stirrups and the leather saddle was dark with urine. Henry swayed slightly, his eyes blank as Warwick approached. One of the men had a hand on the horse’s reins, but the miserable king was in no state to escape, Warwick could see that much. Henry was barely aware, very thin and bedraggled.

It was hard to hate such a man, Warwick realized. In one sense, Henry’s weakness had led to the death of Warwick’s father, but if he had expected anger, all trace of that had seeped away in the years since Towton. The king had suffered as much as anyone else, if he could even understand suffering. Warwick sighed, feeling hollow. His brother John was waiting to be congratulated, and yet he felt no joy of it. Henry was an innocent, in his way. There was little satisfaction in capturing such a man, for all he was the heart of the Lancastrian cause.

‘Pass him into my custody, Brother,’ Warwick said. ‘He will not run from me. I will take him to the Tower.’

To his surprise, his brother frowned. John Neville drew his reins tight, moving his horse a step back and forth as the animal shifted and whickered under him.

‘He is my prisoner, Richard. Not yours. Would you have for yourself the praise I earned?’ He saw Warwick’s flush of anger and spoke again. ‘You have not hunted him across moors and heaths, Richard! Paid bribes and listened to dozens of common men earning a few pennies to inform on him. He is mine. For our father’s memory.’

Warwick was aware that his younger brother had dozens of veterans around him to carry out his orders. There was no question of taking Henry by force, though Warwick was stung to fury by the lack of gratitude and the assumption of some low trickery. He had done more than anyone to raise John Neville from the ranks of knighthood to the nobility. His brother owed him for his estates and his titles. Warwick had assumed that was understood and appreciated. Instead, the younger Neville acted as if there were no debts at all between them. Still, Henry could not be torn from his grasp, not with so many brigands in armour around them.

‘Brother, I will not impose my rank on you …’ Warwick began.

‘You
could
not! Are you a duke, then? Or are we both earls?
Brother
, I had not thought to see this arrogance in you! I called you first because this is a Neville cause, and …’

‘And I am the
head
of the Neville house and clan,’ Warwick replied. ‘Like our father before me. And I am the man who asked for you to be made Earl of Northumberland, when King Edward inquired of me how he could reward my family. Do not test my goodwill in this, John. I seek no gain, but I will take Henry to the Tower, as I did with the fourteen-year-old heir of the Percy family, to remain in a cell there while you enjoy the lands he owned.’

It was not, perhaps, the time to reveal that he had renamed the lad and kept him in service. Warwick was not above manipulating his brother when the need was great. As with King Edward, if those around him could not see the best choices, it was Warwick’s task to bend them to his will in some fashion. He did not care if it was by flattery or force or persuasion, as long as they followed his path.

Earl Sir John Neville felt a muscle twitch at the side of his mouth as he stared in frustration at his older brother. He had adored Warwick in their childhood, when neither of them had known titles or estates. As a young man, John had nursed a jealous resentment for the extraordinary marriage Warwick had made. In one grand gesture, Richard Neville had inherited honour and land enough to sit at the highest tables in England. From that, Warwick had become their father’s close companion and York’s vital supporter, setting the course of the war between them. All the while, John Neville had been a mere knight, not even a member of a grand order like the Garter. Their father’s death had made him Lord Montagu; Towton and the king’s generosity had made him an earl. He could see his brother Richard had grown into his titles, wearing power like a comfortable old cloak. The Earl of Warwick was intimidating in his confidence, even then, even surrounded by John’s own men.

The younger Neville wondered if he would ever wear authority so lightly. He grimaced, shaking his head. He was the Earl of Northumberland and a king’s companion. He would grow into that cloak in time, with nothing to prove to any man and certainly not to his brother. Even so, he felt a pang at the thought of giving up Henry. For all John Neville told himself the man was no longer a king, it was hard not to look on him with awe. John could still feel the place on his hand where he had slapped Henry’s cheek. The thought of that deepened his colour, knowing how Warwick would react if he knew.

Warwick waited for an age while his brother stared at him in silence. Richard Neville knew when to refrain from pressing his arguments. He let his younger brother
remember the debts he owed. Warwick could see anger flickering there and he did not understand that, with all he had done for John. He supposed a constant sense of gratitude would be wearisome, but that did not mean it wasn’t deserved. The simple truth was that his brother was not half the man he was. Warwick expected John Neville to know it.

‘Very well,’ John said hoarsely. ‘I give Henry of Lancaster into your custody. I will leave you a dozen of my men to ensure safe passage through the city to the Tower. The crowds will gather as you pass, once he is seen.’

Warwick inclined his head, touched and pleased at the way John Neville had matured. He was still a very angry young man, but then he had been present for the execution of dozens of Lancaster knights, captains and lords. Perhaps all that blood had cooled John’s desire for vengeance, just a little. Warwick hoped so.

Henry did not resist as Warwick took his reins from the man who held them and led the horse through Ludgate and into the city of London. St Paul’s Cathedral loomed over the streets there, massive and solid, with the voices of a choir singing softly within.

In the darkness, the Tower of London was a frightening place. The main gate was lit with just two small braziers on iron poles. They cast light in yellow eyes around the gatehouse, fading to blackness along the inside of the walls. Individuals of high estate were allowed candles or lamps in their rooms, whatever their families were willing to afford while they were confined. Yet most of the ancient fortress was without light, the stones invisible against the black river running by.