Margaret of Anjou

  York fretted as he halted his horse, looking over the entrances to the town from the east. Three paths lay ahead, as clear as the three entrances to St. Albans. One choice was already made, as he had decided not to remain at Ludlow with his head down. York had been the king’s lieutenant in France and Ireland and he could not sit back and wait for his fate to be decided by others. He knew if he had taken that coward’s course, the king would have reached Leicester in peace—and would have immediately named York and Salisbury as traitors. Salisbury’s men in particular had been certain of that. Whatever else, York could not allow that declaration to be made.

  York removed his gauntlet, laying it over the saddle horn as he wiped sweat from his face, looking south to the stone road stretching away across the hills. He had the forces to attack, a choice with no certain outcome, a choice that would mean he was indeed a traitor to the Crown. He would be oathsworn and damned in front of his eldest son, a thought that sickened him. Such an act would raise the country in righteous rage against a kingslayer. He would never know peace again and he would not sleep for fear of men sent to kill him in the night. York shuddered, rolling his shoulders in the armor. Such men existed, he knew very well. Two centuries before, King Edward I had been cut by some dark-skinned maniac, fighting him off with a chair in his own rooms. That was no kind of fate to choose.

  He could not run and he dared not fight. The choice he had made was the weakest of them all, though perhaps a fraction less likely to end in complete disaster. York turned his horse to face Salisbury and Warwick, meeting the older man’s eyes as they bored into him, watching and judging his every change of expression.

  “When the king arrives,” York said, “there will be no sudden movement among our people, is that understood? My orders are to stand, to hold. The royal ranks will come with hackles raised at the sight of so many arrayed against them. One fool then among us—just one calling an insult at the wrong time—and all we have planned and prayed for will fall apart.”

  Though there were four of them, the conversation was between the two fathers in that group. York and Salisbury faced each other on the dark earth, while their sons looked on and said nothing.

  “I have agreed all that, Richard,” Salisbury replied. “You want your chance to lance the boil. I understand. My men will obey me well enough, you have my word. Send your herald to the king, make the demands we discussed. I think the words will not reach Henry, or if they do, that he will not listen, but I’ve made my objections before. It’s your tune to play, Richard. My men won’t start a fight unless they are attacked. I can’t answer for the peace then.”

  York screwed his face up on one side, reaching up to scratch and rub the roughened skin. He was very aware of his son listening to every word and, for the first time, wished he had not brought him from Ludlow. Edward’s height and breadth made him look like a young knight, especially with his visor down. Yet he was thirteen. The boy still believed his father could not be in the wrong, while York saw only closed paths ahead. Irritated with himself, York swallowed spit and replaced his gauntlet, tugging at it until his fingers reached the end, then clenching the hand into a fist until it shook.

  “King Henry will hear me,” he said, as confidently as he could. “If he allows a parlay or a truce, I’ll walk into his presence before noon today. I’ll kneel and take any oath of fealty he would have of me, as my rightful king. That is how I would have this end, my lord Salisbury. In peace and with our offices restored, with you as chancellor once again, your son as Captain of Calais.”

  “And for you?” Salisbury asked. “What title would you have of the king?”

  York shrugged carelessly.

  “First Counselor perhaps, or Chief Constable of England—whatever name that means I stand once more at his right hand. It is no more than I am owed for my service.”

  York looked to the south, straining his eyes for the first sign of the king’s army. The wind was getting stronger, stealing some of the warmth from the air. He did not see Salisbury and Warwick glance at each other, both men looking quickly away.

  “He will hear me,” York said again.

  —

  DERRY BREWER JOGGED along the column, urged on by the young scout who could not understand why he had refused a horse. Rather than take the time to explain that he had no idea how to stay on one, if he could even have mounted at all, Derry had decided to run to the king. He hadn’t counted on the fact that the column kept moving, turning his mile from the rear into at least twice that distance. By the time he reached the front ranks, he was blowing hard and pouring with perspiration, barely able to speak.

  Edmund, Duke of Somerset, looked down at the scarlet spymaster with an expression of amusement. Even the dour Earl Percy lost his frown at the sight.

  Derry was gasping so hard, he had to reach out and lay a hand on the king’s stirrup to stay abreast of him, rather than fall behind.

  “Your Highness, I have come,” he panted.

  “Half dead and half late,” Buckingham muttered, over on his right, earning himself a glare.

  “I wanted your advice some time ago, Master Brewer,” King Henry said stiffly. “Learn to ride, on my order. Borrow a spare mount and have one of the scouts show you how it is done.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. I’m sorry,” Derry replied through wheezing breaths. He was furious with himself, all too aware that he could once have run three times as far and still arrived ready to fight or run again.

  “York and Salisbury lie ahead of us, Master Brewer, with Warwick. My scout reports an army at least the equal of this column. I must know their intentions, Brewer, before I march the men into the town.”

  Derry had heard the news called a dozen times as he trotted up the line. He’d had time to think, though it could never be enough with so little information to aid him.

  “Your Highness, it is impossible to know York’s mind at this moment. I did not believe he would leave Ludlow, but as he has, the threat cannot be ignored. He has complained about the influence of Somerset and Percy on your royal person. It may be he will take a chance to argue his case, if you grant him safe passage under truce. But I would not trust the man, Your Highness. More, I would send Earl Percy to the rear.”

  “What?” Percy snapped immediately. “You’ll send me nowhere, you impudent whoreson! How dare you advise the king in such a way? I’ll have you stripped and flogged, you—”

  “I called Master Brewer for his counsel,” King Henry said, speaking over the old man’s anger. “I’ll thank you to remain still while he speaks. I’ll judge the worth of what he says.”

  Earl Percy subsided with bad grace, his eyes promising terrible retribution as he continued to glare at the unfortunate spymaster.

  Derry’s breathing began to ease.

  “There’s no secret to the feud between Percy and the Nevilles, Your Highness. Whatever York intends, the men-at-arms they command should not be allowed to come close to each other. Dogs will fight, Your Highness. Loyalty to their masters could begin the bloodshed, where the patrons want only peace.”

  “You think York has brought an army just to be heard, then?” the king said, staring ahead up the road. The first houses of the town were coming into view, less than a mile away, forcing his hand.

  “I think he would have met us on open ground if his intention was to fight,” Derry replied. “Battles are not fought in towns, Your Highness—at least, not well. I was in London when Jack Cade came in and I remember the chaos of that night. Young Warwick was there and his memories are no sweeter than mine. There were no tactics then, no maneuvers of the field—just running and panic and bloody murder in the alleyways. If York intends to attack, he will not allow this column to enter St. Albans.”

  “Thank you, Master Brewer,” King Henry replied. A memory surfaced and he smiled slightly as he went on. “Though you have no beer, you do have my trust.”

  De
rry blinked at the echo of a different time, a half-forgotten shadow. The king he faced showed little sign of that drowned man in his clear gaze.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. “You honor me.” Derry looked up at the still-glaring Earl Percy then, hoping the old man had noted his standing with the king. He had enough enemies.

  “The town lies yonder and there is no sign of York’s ranks marching out to meet us,” Henry said. He clenched his right fist on the reins and Derry saw anger swell, mottling the king’s face. “Yet there is an army in my path, a stone in my way. It will not be borne, my lords. Not by me. We will not go on from St. Albans until I am satisfied—and if they are traitors and damned men, I will line the road back to London with their heads, every mother’s son of those who wait for us. Every one!”

  “Shall I retire to the rear, Your Highness?” Earl Percy said to the king, his gaze still fixed malevolently on Derry Brewer.

  “No,” Henry replied without hesitation. “Lead the way into the town, Earl Percy. Have the trumpets sound and the banners held high. Let those ahead know I am here and I am not abashed by their presence. Let them fear damnation and death if they lay a hand on a blade against their rightful king.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The bells of St. Alban’s Abbey tolled ten times as the king’s column entered the town. The clock there was said to be a wonder of the age, capable of predicting eclipses as well as striking the hours, with the hands of monks employed only to lift its slow-falling weights and rewind the mechanism.

  The echoing notes sounded over deserted streets, though every window was packed full of nervous faces. No one living within the bounds of the town had left their homes that day, to work or buy food. The stalls and shops were either empty or still in piles of canvas and lumber, their owners fled.

  Marching in from the open road, King Henry’s men fell silent almost rank by rank, intimidated by the houses on either side as they went further and further into the town. On their right shoulder, beyond the rows of tall houses, they all knew a massive force stood in Key Field, waiting. There was fear in all of them, but also determination. They rode or walked uphill with the king and he could be seen at the head of the column, his banners gold, red, and white. Fortunes were made and lost in battle when a king was present. Every man of lower rank considered, at least for a moment of private reflection, that he might be blessed that day, perhaps knighted for some act of valor, or even made noble by the king’s hand. For some, such a prospect would be their only chance to gain both wealth and power for their names.

  In the center of the town, an open marketplace stood, a long triangle surrounded on all sides by the homes of wealthy merchants and St. Peter’s Church at one corner. The front ranks reached it before the abbey clock tolled again and the king reined in. More and more of his lords and their men filled the space until soldiers had to be halted further back. As soon as they dismounted and touched the cobbled street, Somerset and Percy sent men out to observe the enemy positions. Senior captains went to kick in the doors of pubs along the route, to guard the ale from those of their men who might prefer to vanish into the cellars for the day. Others forced the entrances of private homes against the terrified cries of the owners, while many more simply picked a clean spot on the open street, calling up the baggage carts and borrowing dried fuel and pots to prepare a midday meal. Without the presence of the Yorkist army outside the town, it might have been a cheerful morning, but the threat of violence made men grim as they went about their business.

  Around the king’s position on the hill, cobbles were levered up and stakes hammered into the ground to anchor a great awning for Henry to rest and be private. The king dismounted, waiting patiently while benches and a table were brought up from carts further down, carried along like turtles through the stream of busy soldiers. In just a short time, Henry and his senior lords had a place to sit and canvas to protect them from the wind and the common gaze.

  As his horse was taken away to be brushed and fed, Henry called for Percy, Somerset, Buckingham, and Derry Brewer to attend him. He removed his gauntlets and nodded to the servants who laid a cup and jug of wine and a platter of cold meats before him. His four summoned men entered to stand in silence, waiting on his command.

  King Henry drank deeply of the wine, smacking his lips. He caught sight of his doctors hanging back beyond the first row of guards and frowned to himself, performing his internal check once more. No, he was all right, he reassured himself. He knew there were moments of vagueness, when he lost the thread of his thoughts, but they came and went quickly. He did not need to call those old spiders and endure their prodding and sweet mixtures.

  “My lords, Master Brewer, I do not believe we will be hearing cases today. That ragtag collection of traitors outside the town is our only concern. What reports do you have? What do you suggest?”

  Somerset spoke before anyone else. He’d had his scouts riding through the town before the king reached the boundary. By his expression, nothing he’d learned had pleased him.

  “Your Highness, there are three entrances from the east. Two are narrow roads, alleys almost. We passed thornbushes outside the town and, with a little work, those two can be blocked against the most determined attack. The third is wider and harder to stop up. I’ll need to take tables out of houses, perhaps even beams, or a horse trough.” He did not say he had already given the orders and that forty men were hard at work securing that side of the town. Some things were too urgent to be left, and Somerset merely waited for the king to nod.

  “You would have me hidden away behind thorns?” Henry asked softly. “I . . . that does not please me, my lord Somerset. Not thirty miles from London, the King of England . . .” he broke off, his drumming fingers growing still on the wooden table.

  After a beat of awkward silence, Derry swallowed nervously. He suspected the king was passing through one of his blank moments and he chose to speak over it, whether Henry heard him or not.

  “Your Highness, whatever the slight to your honor, we have three wolves in the field. No one leaves the door of their house open with such hungry eyes looking in.” He paused as King Henry blinked, shaking his head like a spasm and looking up in the beginnings of confusion. “Until we know what York and Salisbury and Warwick intend, Your Highness, it is the merest sense to bolt the door against them.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Derry,” Henry said. “As you say. I trust your judgment.”

  The king’s eyes brightened and he raised his head, finding Earl Percy staring oddly at him.

  “Well, Earl Percy? Will you stand there like a post?” Henry demanded, glaring back at the old man. “How many of them are there in Key Field? You can answer your own questions now, for me, as you put them to Squire James before.”

  Earl Percy pursed his mouth into a thin line. God had placed his most dangerous enemy in opposition to the king, but his confidence fluttered like a candle in a breeze with the younger man’s strangeness.

  “My men say they have three thousand, Your Highness. They report at least four hundred archers among the Warwick men, all wearing red. Perhaps another two thousand are pike and axemen, with the rest on horseback. No small force, Your Highness—and traitors, as you say. Salisbury is there, with his son, two cunning men who have shown nothing but scorn for your royal authority. It’s clear enough to me that their fall from grace has left them wounded and angry still. There can be no other reason for them to stand and threaten the king.”

  Henry took another draft of the wine, the cup instantly refilled by a servant standing at his shoulder.

  “Three thousand?” he repeated. “By God, it’s true then. The fortunes of men like York and Salisbury have grown too large if they can afford to arm and feed so many.” The king looked sharply at his spymaster. “Brewer. Without the men of my household and the judges, lawyers, pot-boys, heralds, and the like, how many armed men stand with me today?”

  It
was a question Derry had considered with Somerset, making a close count as they approached the town.

  “No more than fifteen hundred, Your Highness, though we could arm a hundred of the serving lads as well, if we had to.”

  “Those with us are the finest quality of soldiers,” Percy added. “The personal guards of your lords, Your Highness. Each of them would be worth two or more of those standing with the Nevilles, no doubt quaking at the thought of besieging their king.”

  “And York, Lord Percy,” Somerset said irritably. “You seem to think only of the Neville father and son, while it is York who commands, York who was Protector and Defender. It will be their loyalty to York that concerns us, not your petty disputes.”

  Before Earl Percy could snap a furious reply, Somerset addressed the king once more.

  “Your Highness, do I have your permission to block the three roads in? We cannot sally out against so many, but we can leave them to break themselves on thorns, if they attack.”

  “Yes, give the order,” Henry replied, still gloomily considering the numbers against him.

  Somerset made a point of summoning one of his men and giving him the instructions. The man knew very well the barricades were already being constructed and Somerset shoved him roughly on his way before his confusion became a question.

  By the time Somerset stepped back into the king’s presence, Henry had risen from his seat. His cheeks were a little flushed from the wine, but he seemed resolute and aware.