Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (7 page)

Outside, she heard horses draw up and men’s voices calling out the watchword of the day to her guards. Derry Brewer had insisted on such things, saying he would look a right fool if he let the queen be captured for want of a few childish passwords and rituals. Margaret frowned as she heard the voice to match the name, wondering why her spymaster had returned from St Albans. Surely the battle could not have been won so early in the day?

Her son rose and ran to the open door, waving and calling a greeting. Margaret looked up sharply when he fell suddenly silent, his eyes grown wide. She was half out of her chair and rising as she heard a clatter of armoured men dropping to kneel on the cobblestones of the street. Derry’s voice rang out, louder.

‘Gentlemen, I give you His Grace, King Henry of England, Lord of Ireland, King of France and Duke of Lancaster,’ he said.

Margaret could hear the satisfaction in his voice. She strode to the door and pressed past her son, still standing with his mouth hanging open like any village dolt. As her dress swept across the boy, Edward seemed to come awake and he rushed out with her into the rain and wind.

Margaret had not seen her husband in eight months, since she had saved her son and herself, leaving Henry alone in his tent at Northampton. She felt herself flush at the prospect of a rebuke, but raised her head even so, a fraction higher. Warwick and York had been triumphant then, carrying all before them to capture the Lancaster king. From that low point, Margaret had turned their victories right over. York and Salisbury were dead and Warwick was at bay. Her husband had
lived
through his ordeal. That was all that mattered.

Henry turned from dismounting and staggered under the impact of his son embracing him.

‘Edward,’ he said. ‘
Boy!
How you have grown. Is your mother here? Ah, Margaret, I see you there. Have you no embrace for me? It has been a long time.’

Margaret stepped out, feeling the wind like a slap. She bowed her head and Henry reached out almost wonderingly to her damp cheek. He was very thin, she saw, his skin as pale as the pig’s face in the pot behind her. She knew he rarely ate unless pressed to do so, and those who had kept him would not have cared overmuch. Henry did not look strong and his eyes were as empty and guileless as they had always been.

‘You are a Madonna, Margaret,’ he said softly. ‘A mother of great beauty.’

Margaret felt her colour deepen as she breathed. She was thirty years old and there were matrons of her age with a dozen brats and hips wide enough to have birthed them in litters. She knew she had her vanity, but that was a small sin in comparison to some others.

‘My heart is full to see you, Henry,’ she said. ‘Now you are safe, we can pursue the traitors to their destruction.’

She knew better than to expect praise, but she felt herself curl with the need of it even so.

‘I brought an army south, Henry,’ she went on, unable to stop herself. ‘All the way from Scotland, some of them.’

Her husband tilted his head, his eyes faintly quizzical, like a dog trying to discern the wishes of its mistress. Was it too much to ask that her husband might speak in love and praise to her, after a battle won and a rescue? Her heart seemed to shrink as he gazed back, blank as a man asked questions he did not understand. Margaret felt tears prickle
into her eyes and she raised her head further so they would not spill.

‘Come, my husband,’ she said, reaching out to take him gently by the arm. ‘You must be hungry and cold. There is a fire within and some broth. You’ll enjoy both, Henry.’

‘Thank you. If you say so, Margaret. I would like to see Abbot Whethamstede, for my confession. Is he close by?’

Margaret made a small, choked sound, almost a laugh, as they reached the warm interior of the inn.

‘Oh, Henry, what sins could you possibly have managed in your captivity?’

To her surprise, his arm stiffened in her grip. He turned to her with a frown on his pale face.

‘We are
creatures
of sin, Margaret, capable of lies and foul weakness even in our innermost thoughts. And we are weak in
mind
, so that sin creeps in. And we are frail in
body
, so that we can be swept from the world in a moment, choking – and gone! With sins untold and a soul damned for ever! You’d have me sit unshriven, while on my shoulder lies eternity? For what? A warm room? A bowl of soup?’

Her husband had grown red in his passion. Margaret drew him into her shoulder, comforting and shushing him as she might have with their son, until his breathing steadied.

‘I will have the abbot summoned, Henry. If the battle means he cannot come, I will have a priest brought to your side. Do you understand?’

He nodded, visibly relieved.

‘Until then, Henry, it would please me if you would eat and rest.’

‘I will, as you say,’ Henry replied.

Margaret could see that Derry Brewer was stepping from foot to foot, waiting to speak. She passed her husband into the care of her steward and one of the English guards, making sure that both men had some idea of how to address and speak to the king. As soon as Henry was seated with a blanket over his legs, she hurried back across the room to her spymaster.

‘Thank you for my husband, Derry. What news of the battle?’

‘Not yet won, my lady, though we had a fine start. It was the merest luck that they put the king at the rear. Half our lads walked right past him. Mind you, I’ve found good luck comes after hard work, not quite as the mysterious gift some would call it.’

‘I have found my prayers are answered more often if I chivvy them along with coins and plans and the right men, yes. “Try first thyself, and
after
call on God”, Derry. He does not love a lazy man.’

Margaret pressed the knuckle of a thumb into her eye socket, holding it there over her closed eyes. Derry waited patiently enough, preferring the warmth and the smell of broth to anything he might find outside.

‘I am reeling, Derry, to have all this come so fast upon me. My husband safe, unharmed and whole – or no worse than he ever was. My son with me, my lords Somerset and Percy bringing retribution on those who would still stand against us. We are
restored
, Master Brewer! The king is, what, a dozen miles from London? We’ll be there tomorrow and the whole country will learn that Lancaster has survived. They’ll see my son and know there is a fine heir. I cannot take it in, Derry! We’ve come so far.’

‘My lady, I’ll know more by tonight. Until then, you can
keep your husband safe and warm and comfortable. He always was the key to the lock, my lady. He still is. I think …’

The clatter of horses could be heard long before they reached the tavern – at least sixty mounts on iron shoes striking the stone road. Derry frowned to himself as the sound grew louder. Dunstable was barely ten miles from the battlefield and he had ridden slowly to get King Henry to safety. It was not beyond possibility that some enemy had seen him go and sent out a troop of violent knights or men-at-arms to bring him back.

‘My lady, be prepared to move the king away if those are not our men,’ he said.

Derry moved swiftly to the door and left it swinging behind him. In the rain and mist, he could not make out the shields of the approaching riders. Each was spattered in thick mud, thrown up by the hooves of their mounts. Around Derry, thirty armoured knights prepared to defend the royal family to the death.

‘Peace! Hold there! Somerset!’ came from the lead rider.

He was as caked with mud as anyone, but he wiped his breastplate clear with one hand and levered up his visor, reining in a few feet from those who raised swords and axes against him in the road.

‘Somerset! I’ve said it. My name is my own password and I’ll have the head of any man who bares a blade at me. Is that clear? Where is the queen?’

‘It is him, lads,’ Derry called. ‘Let my lord Somerset through.’

‘Brewer? Lend a hand here, would you?’

Derry had no choice but to obey, approaching the duke and taking hold of the spurred boot pressed into his hand.
The duke swung his leg out and down with great speed, so that Derry staggered and almost fell. As the younger man stood before him, Derry could see that Somerset recalled being heaved off the same horse once before. The duke looked coldly at him, very aware of his own power in that moment.

‘Take me to Queen Margaret, Brewer,’ he said.

‘And her husband, King Henry,’ Brewer replied.

The duke hitched in his step as he passed the reins to a servant, hesitating for just the tiniest of instants. Having the king back would be an adjustment for them all, Derry thought.

Edward of York dismounted as quietly as he could, tying his reins to a low branch. He could not help the creaking of his armour, nor the snap and flutter of the great wolfskin cloak he had taken to wearing. Some of the sounds would be hidden by the wind and swallowed by the forest and crags around him. He did not give it too much thought, but he knew the pack of wolves would not be fooled. As predators themselves, even intent on their own hunt, they would know he was there.

Edward could hear snarling as he stalked between the granite outcrops. It was rough country around Northampton, with rocks as old as time and covered in dark-green moss. He had not seen another soul for two days of his hunt and he had no fear of being ambushed, though the path narrowed until the sky was just a strip of grey overhead. In that cramped space, his shoulders rubbed the walls and the growling and barking intensified ahead, that primal combination of rage and fear that was the signature of a pack. The thought crossed his mind that it was not a wise thing to walk in unannounced on so many wild wolves, at least until he knew there was another path out. If he blocked their escape, they would surely attack him as savagely as any other prey.

He smiled at the thought, certain in his own strength and speed. Risk was a clean thing, he’d discovered, one part of the world that could still give him joy, where all else
was sickness and grief. In danger, he was all white bone, without the weight of flesh. He welcomed it.

It was dark between the walls of stone, so that the light ahead was almost painfully bright. Edward strode as fast as he could, until the sound of fighting and yelping grew as loud as a battle. He broke into a run as the path widened and then skidded to a halt as it opened into a bowl, no more than forty yards across. He risked a brief look upwards, seeing no spot where he might climb out. Just a few paces from him was a huge, rolling pack of wolves, howling and snapping at the hound they had brought to bay. It barked in turn at them, the sound lost in their cacophony. The wolves had backed the animal up against the far wall and left no gap for it to escape.

They knew a man stood behind them. Edward could see that in the glances they threw at him. Lesser members of the pack ducked their heads in fear at his odour of unwashed sweat. Three young males turned to face him, driven to barking, jerking frenzy as they lunged toward and away, stiff-legged and huge-eyed.

Edward felt beads of fresh perspiration running down his face. He had expected a small pack, six or perhaps a dozen. Instead, more than thirty wolves ranged about, all thin-waisted, yellow-toothed killers. He had been standing there in the cold for just a few heartbeats and they were still reacting to him.

The dog they had run down was a black-and-white brute, Edward saw that much; some sort of hunter’s mastiff, with the sense to stay close to the wall. It was trapped in that place and the pack would surely have killed it if he had not come. He knew they still might.

Edward looked up as something flickered above him,
on the edge of the canyon walls. The bowl in the ground was no more than six or seven yards deep at his first guess, twenty feet or so. It had a regular look that made him think of the work of men rather than some ancient river’s course. There were still Roman rings and stones left to be found in the forests; he’d seen them. The bowl had that feel.

Edward thought he might see a shepherd boy and feared the sight of a soldier. He did not expect a young woman to rear up amidst the bracken and ivy. He stood open-mouthed as she clung to the root of a stunted rowan bush, peering into the bowl. She raised her right arm and Edward saw she carried a stone as large as an apple. She seemed to sense his gaze and looked across, apparently astonished to see a bearded warrior standing there in wolfskins and armour.

‘Get away there!’ she shouted, throwing the stone hard into the midst of the pack. It struck one of the smaller bitches, so that she gave a great jerk and squeal, snapping at herself in confusion.

Edward’s heart sank as he saw the woman raise her arm again. He could see she was intent on saving her dog, but the result … He felt the acid of anger rising. He was in armour and he had his cloak and a sword his father had given him. He drew the long blade as more stones smacked and skipped amongst the wolves. They yelped and darted away under that torment, forgetting their prey. In an instant, all they wanted was to escape.

There was a man in their way. Edward sensed the mood change as the biggest ones turned and glared. A big male loped towards him to challenge, thick-furred and wide at the shoulder. Edward swallowed, but he was eighteen years
old and his own senses kindled to heat. His sword had been made especially for him, with a tapering spine of steel that ran the three-foot length of the blade. It was too heavy for most men to use well, but it could withstand the force of his blows. He held it as if the weight was nothing.

‘Come on then, boy,’ he said aloud, growling the words. ‘See what I’ll give you.’

Edward had hunted wolves many times but never seen the action of a pack when they were faced with a clear choice. With no beat of hesitation, every one of the animals launched themselves at him in lunging, frothing rage. Despite his size, Edward was slammed back against the wall of the cleft, almost brought to his knees with the sheer weight of them. His armour saved him then, the scarred metal proof against claws and teeth. The wolves grabbed and savaged his cloak, tearing holes in it as they jerked their heads back and forth, pulling him around and off balance. Edward made his own battle cry. He swung his sword in scything blows, though he did as much damage with his gauntlets.

It was over in heartbeats, just as soon as the pack leaders had drawn or yanked him away from their only path to freedom. Edward panted, resting his hands on his knees. Four wolves lay on the ground near him, two alive and two clearly dead.

The rest of the pack were long gone and there was no sign of the woman who had set them all off. Slowly, wincing from the bruises and scratches he had taken, Edward sank down to a crouch, reaching out to one of the wounded animals. He could see her back was broken and her haunches dragged as she tried to stand. Her lips curled and her eyes widened as his hand came closer, until he smacked
her hard on the muzzle. She barked once, then crawled away from him, whimpering all the while.

Edward straightened up carefully as the enormous mastiff padded over, growling deep in its throat whenever one of the wolves moved. They were no threat and the black-and-white dog was not afraid. Scuffed and dusty, it walked right up to Edward, limping on a paw that ran with blood. As Edward looked down, the dog pushed at him with its head, rubbing its muzzle into the folds of his cloak. He did not think he had ever seen a larger hound.

‘You
are
a big lad, aren’t you, boy?’ Edward said. ‘Like me. Was that your mistress, up there? The one who set the whole pack on me? Yes, it was. Was that your mistress, boy?’

The dog wagged a tail like a leather whip. To Edward’s amusement, the huge-headed animal smiled visibly as he rubbed it between its shoulders. For all the scratches and cuts it had taken, the dog was simply pleased to be patted by someone friendly.

Edward looked up as small stones and leaves rained around him. The woman he’d seen was climbing down through the rocks and undergrowth, hanging on to roots and stones while her dress snagged and showed her legs to the thigh. He was bruised and hot and irritated, so he went on to one knee and rubbed harder at the dog until it rolled suddenly and presented an almost hairless belly to him, beaming stupidly, its tongue lolling.

Edward could hear the woman’s breathing, louder in that cleft than it might have sounded above. He waited for her, content to pat and fuss over the dog while his own breathing returned to normal. The injured wolves around him were whining and he considered using a knife to end their suffering, then thought better of it. They had attacked
him and the experience had been frightening, though he would not have admitted it to anyone. Despite his mail and plate, adult wolves were both heavy and blindingly quick. If he’d gone over on to his back, he knew they’d have ripped his throat out. He still had a memory of yellow teeth snapping shut so close to his eyes that he’d expected searing pain to follow.

For what seemed an age, he waited, aware of the woman’s presence above but not reacting to it. She had climbed halfway down, but then stopped on a steep bit of moss-covered granite, about a dozen feet from the ground. It was still too high to jump and he could hear her crabbing back and forth in frustration, looking for another step or handhold and not finding one.

He heard her slip, looking up as she cursed. Whatever she had been holding in both hands had given up its grip on the ground with no warning. She flailed and in the last instant kicked away from the wall, so that she was falling towards him, a dark shape against the pale sky. He had only to rise and take a step to catch her.

Edward watched, idly scratching the dog’s ribs as the woman crashed to the ground beside him, to lie gasping up at the sky. He did not know if she had been badly hurt. The dog rolled to its feet and ran over to her with its tail a blur, whining and yelping as it licked her face and pressed its nose into her open hands. Edward unwrapped a piece of twine from a loop around his waist and began to knot a collar for the dog.

‘You will need a name, old son,’ Edward said. A thought struck him and he looked over at the woman. She was still gasping, lying where she had fallen despite the dog’s slobber and nuzzling. ‘What did you call him?’

She groaned suddenly as she sat up, her face and hands badly scratched and stained in green and brown. There were leaves in her long hair, he noticed. On another day, perhaps a day when she had not fallen and scraped her way down a cleft in the ground, she would have been called beautiful. Even then, glaring at him, her eyes were arresting, over-large and bright with anger.

‘He is mine, whoever you are,’ she said. ‘And my brothers are coming down that path, if you’ve a mind to hurt me.’

Edward waved a careless arm back at the path.

‘I have an army around here somewhere – and a hunting party of forty men. I’m not worried about your brothers, or your father. Or you. But the dog is mine, so what did you call him?’

‘You’re
stealing
him?’ she said, shaking her head in amazement. ‘You didn’t catch me and now you’re
stealing
my dog? Why didn’t you catch me?’

Edward looked at her. Her hair was a reddish blonde, dragged back and held in a knot behind. Half of it had come loose and stood out like a brush. There was something about the heavy-lidded eyes that made him wish he had caught her, but he could not retreat from the position he had chosen. He shrugged.

‘You caused me pain, with your wolves.’

‘Not
my
wolves! I was trying to save Bede from them.’

The mastiff pricked up its ears at hearing its own name. Still at her side, it leaned against her until she scratched its back. The dog groaned and huffed in pleasure. Edward felt a pang of loss.

‘Bede the scholar? That is a poor name for a dog. I shall call him Brutus, perhaps.’

‘You are a poor excuse for a man, for all your size. You
did not catch me and you cannot name a dog better than a child.
“Brutus”!
’

Edward coloured, his cheeks deepening as his mouth tightened.

‘Or Moses, perhaps. Or Brindle, for his colours. Is that your name, boy? Brin? Is that it? I think it could be.’

Something colder had come upon him as he talked to the dog. His eyes seemed to darken and he hunched slightly, radiating a threat where before he had seemed gentle. The woman closed her mouth on any further protest. His great size had misled her at first. She realized he was years younger than she had guessed, with a fine black beard to cover most of his face. His cloak had been torn and tattered by the wolves, but it still swirled around him, adding to the sense of his bulk in that small place. She stood, not yet sure if he would be a danger. It was clear enough that her dog would be no use at all. She frowned, feeling her aches and pains begin to throb.

‘You shouldn’t steal a dog, above all other things. If you would like him, you should buy him from me – and you should pay a fair price.’

Edward rose with her and seemed to blot out the sky above. It was not just his height but the huge breadth of him, the shoulders and arms built by years of working with a sword and shield. His beard was unkempt and his hair was long and matted with dust, but his eyes were steady. She felt a fluttering in her stomach and womb as he shook his head.

‘I imagine you are persuasive, woman. But I won’t bite. Here, Brin. To me.’

The enormous mastiff came back to his legs and stood panting, its head split almost in two by its grin. Edward
looped his twine around the animal’s neck, making a leash of the rest and winding it around his left hand.

‘You should climb back out, if you can,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘My men will be looking for me and you don’t want to be found by them. The dog is payment for my wounds, my lady. Good day to you.’

Elizabeth Grey watched him leave. She could sense the glassy darkness in the young giant, as well as the physical power in him. The combination was enough to bring an odd weakness when he had gone. She reminded herself that she was a married woman, with two strong boys and a husband in Lord Somerset’s ranks. She decided not to mention such a strange meeting to Sir John Grey. Her husband could be a suspicious fellow. She sighed to herself. She would just have to tell him the dog had died.

St Albans was barely twenty miles from London, not even a day on the road. Every man marching with the king and queen knew they could set off with the sun still climbing and see the Thames before dark. The prospect raised all their moods. London meant inns and ale. It meant being paid – and all the good things that came after. In preparation for the last march, Margaret’s army smartened themselves up as best they could, laughing and joking as they packed up the equipment and loaded carts.