Margaret of Anjou

  Margaret smiled, appreciating his efforts to bring her cheer.

  “Let us hope his name is a good omen, then.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Sandal Castle lay at the heart of a hundred and twenty thousand acres, almost two hundred square miles of land. As well as farms and forest, entire towns and a dozen parishes lay within the bounds of the estate, with every church, farm, or merchant business paying tithes to their liege lord. It was true that York preferred Ludlow Castle as his family home, but he still felt himself relax as he and Salisbury reached the edge of his holdings and rode the last few miles of road to the fortress.

  As with all his outlying estates, Sandal was run in his absence by a trusted steward, the fortress kept ready for him. It had long been York’s habit to visit each of his great houses at least twice every year, spending enough time there to count the incomes and assess all the costs of staff and supplies, anything from new blocks of stables to dredging a local river to prevent flooding. Almost as soon as the army with York and Salisbury had crossed the outer boundary, news went racing ahead and Sir William Peverill was disturbed in his private rooms within the castle, so that the steward came out and took charge. Peverill was far from a young man and yet the routines for the return of the duke were long established and caused him no especial worry. In the closest village of Sandal Magna, servants who had gone home for Christmas were summoned back at their best speed, rushing along the road to the castle in great panting groups to be there to welcome York.

  Before the duke reached the foot of the long hill that led directly to Sandal, Peverill had revised his estimate of the meat required three times, shouting questions back at those who rushed in with news in a tone of growing disbelief. Butchers and their boys were sent out with cleavers to the barns well away from the main walls. Pigs in straw-covered pens, chickens and even drowsy geese were sheltered there from the winter cold. With talk of thousands of soldiers on the road, they would all have to be slaughtered for the spits. The twelve days of Christmas were still upon them and Sir William knew York would expect some sort of feast. The castle steward had the main kitchen fires stoked as well as two others in the undercroft basements that only saw use at celebrations. All over the fortress, boys and maids ran in all directions, dusting and cleaning, wiping windows and struggling into their best clothes.

  York and Salisbury rode together at the head of the column, though they kept their scouts out for miles in all directions, even there. Salisbury had never visited Sandal before and he found himself impressed at the quiet order of the estate as it appeared from the outside. He could not see the frenzy of preparation going on within its walls. The paths and fields were well tended and dozens of charcoal-makers came from their winter huts in the forest to watch the column pass and raise their caps to their lord.

  As the ranks marched slowly up the hill, the wind seemed to increase in speed with every step, biting at their hands and faces until they were all numb and shivering. Salisbury could see tiny figures on the highest level of the keep itself, far above the rest of the fortress. He winced at the thought of spending a night up there to watch for enemies. The land had been cleared around Sandal for half a mile in every direction. Beyond those open fields, thick forest began that stretched across hills into the distance on all sides.

  There was only one entrance to the actual fortress, over a deep moat designed to frustrate cavalry or marching men. York glanced into it with interest as they approached the gatehouse, seeing a few feet of water from the incessant winter rains. The drawbridge was down for his approach under banners and he and Salisbury stepped across the narrow gap together, passing beneath the gatehouse and through walls twelve feet thick at the base.

  Salisbury guided his horse to one side with York, and the marching ranks came through the gate as if there would never be an end to them. The space beyond was a horseshoe of no more than two acres, surrounding another steep drop to a fist-like block of a barbican in dark gray stone, some thirty feet below the main yard. In time of war, it would have been a second obstacle, packed with soldiers and joined by its own drawbridge. The barbican guarded the only path up to the keep, rising above all the rest. That tower had been built on the crest of its own hill, the final defense if the castle was ever breached. Even to reach it, any attacking force would have had to fight their way across two moats and then uphill and over a third drawbridge. When that was pulled back, the keep was utterly isolated from the rest.

  Sandal had none of the grace Salisbury had seen in Ludlow, or his own home of Middleham. It had been built for war, though never with the expectation of eight thousand men cramming inside its walls. Across the far end of the horseshoe, a line of wooden buildings lay close by the outer walls, with doors open and servants standing in ranks to welcome their liege lord. Soldiers streamed in past them, heading briskly out of the wind and cold, so that the latecomers found every room and corridor packed and had to struggle back to find a spot to rest in the yard. Still, they came in, until there was no space in the fortress that did not have a man sitting on it and looking around eagerly for food. Far above their heads, the banners of the house of York were raised on the keep, flung out by the gusting wind to show he was in residence once more. York watched his colors rise with a low curse and sent a man into the barbican and up to the highest point to have them taken down.

  As night fell, lamps and candles were lit along every inner wall and a number of braziers brought out for shivering men to cluster around in the yard. As well as the joints carried back in by blood-stained butchers, every basement and winter store was ransacked for hams, ale, huge green joints of bacon with the knob of the bone showing, even pots of honey and preserved fruit—anything at all that might have a chance of satisfying the appetites of so many hungry soldiers.

  Salisbury was one of those given a suite of rooms. York’s son Edmund took it upon himself to show him the way, making polite and slightly awkward conversation down an endless track of corridors and halls. Two servants went with them, stopping on either side of a door and standing stiffly.

  “This one is empty, my lord,” Edmund said. “These two will wash or repair anything you might need.”

  “I needed only to know where I would sleep,” Salisbury replied. “Give me just a moment and I will rejoin your father.” He vanished inside and Edmund waited impatiently, held by the demands of courtesy to a guest, even in such unusual circumstances.

  The baggage carts were still being unloaded outside the castle, so Salisbury had little with him. True to his word, he returned after a short time. He’d shed his sword and baldric, as well as his outer coat. He’d clearly found time to dip his hands in a bowl of water and he ran them through his hair as he and Edmund walked back along their route.

  “You remind me of your father, when he was a young man,” Salisbury said suddenly.

  Edmund grinned.

  “Though I am taller, I believe, my lord.”

  Both men considered Edward in that moment, and Salisbury was intrigued at the frown that flickered across the young man’s face.

  “Your brother Edward is the second tallest I have ever seen, after Sir John de Leon, when I served in France. Sir John was not so well made, however, not . . . um, handsome.”

  “Handsome, my lord?” Edmund said, smiling.

  Salisbury shrugged, too old to be embarrassed.

  “Yes, I’d say so. Sir John was both the tallest and the ugliest man I have ever encountered. An unfortunate fellow, all in all. He could throw a barrel, of his own weight, twice his height into the air. A fair test and not one I have ever seen beaten. Sadly, despite his great strength, he could not run. He shambled, Edmund, far too slowly as it turns out, at least when it came to French cannon fire.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. I would have liked to see my brother meet a man who could make him look up.” Edmund spoke with wry humor and Salisbury found himself liking the lad.

>   “I’m sure you have heard the phrase, but you know, it is not the size of the dog in the fight . . .”

  “. . . but the size of the fight in the dog,” Edmund replied, delighted. “Yes, my lord. I have heard it.”

  “There’s truth in those words, Edmund. Your father, for example, is no great giant of a man, but he does not give up, no matter the odds. It is a good thing he has old fellows like me to counsel him, eh?”

  “He admires you greatly, my lord. That much I know.”

  They had reached the door of the main hall and Edmund pushed it open. It was more brightly lit than the corridor outside and he could hear his father’s voice suddenly louder.

  “I will leave you here, my lord. I must see to the kitchen staff, if there’s to be food served.”

  Salisbury paused on the threshold.

  “If you should . . . happen to come across a cold chicken, say, even a bit of bread or rice pudding, you’ll remember where I am?”

  Edmund chuckled, nodding.

  “I’ll see what I can find, my lord.”

  Salisbury went in, feeling the heat of the huge fire as well as the crowd of men inside. The chimney was not drawing particularly well and smoke lay thick in the room, so that those closest were coughing. Three small dogs were rushing about in wild excitement, one of them stopping to pee against a man’s leg, so that a great shout went up from his companions while he roared and tried to kick it away. Salisbury was grateful for the warmth and swung close to the fire as he made his way to York.

  “Your son is a good lad,” Salisbury said.

  York looked up from a table laid with maps.

  “Who, Edmund? Yes, though I might wish his mother had not sent him to me. I’m tempted to order him back to Ludlow, until this is over.”

  “He, er . . . he wouldn’t like that, I believe. He wants to impress you.”

  “All sons do,” York said, a little more sharply than he intended. “Sorry. My mind is on a dozen other things. Let me pour wine for you.” As soon as Salisbury had a full cup, York traced a line on the parchment with his finger. “There. I’ve sent a rider south to Warwick, on a fast horse.”

  “And west? Whatever the Tudors intend, we could use the three thousand with Edward.”

  York fiddled with the cups and jug again before shaking his head.

  “No, not yet. Our second army will reach us in . . . three days, four at the most. If Warwick brings six thousand, yes, perhaps we’ll need to strip Wales. Yet he could bring twelve or fifteen, even! Your boy is a popular man in Kent, Richard—and Scales gave them fresh scores to settle. They’ll come against a king’s army, I think. Even in winter.”

  York’s eyes were wary and Salisbury wondered if the duke intended to keep his heir away from danger. With so many listening ears around them, Salisbury could not ask. Even as he tried to frame the question delicately, the doors opened and huge trays of food were carried in by sweating servants. A cheer went up from the gathered men, echoed all around the castle and its grounds as the kitchen staff found mouths to feed.

  They had marched two hundred miles on poor rations and they fell on the dishes like the starving men they were, stripping them clean and then wiping fingers around the edges of the platters in search of the last traces of grease. Salisbury looked on in dismay until he felt a touch on his shoulder and saw Edmund had returned with a wooden trencher of cold meats and a half loaf.

  “No rice pudding?” Salisbury said. “I’m joking. Bless you, lad, for remembering.” His stomach was growling.

  Edmund smiled and bowed, heading back to his own meal in the kitchens.

  York had barely noticed the exchange as he pored over his maps. Salisbury joined him at his elbow, sharing the trencher as he and York ate and drank standing up. They could both hear rain spattering against the roof, increasing in force until it was a hissing roar.

  “I don’t envy the men outside,” York said grimly, “but Sandal is too small for so many. Warwick will have to camp on the cleared land, when he comes. I don’t think we could squeeze one more soldier inside these walls.”

  “It’ll do the men of Kent good to see what a bit of real weather is like,” Salisbury said cheerfully. “I only hope they are bringing food north with them.” He gestured to the platters only to notice they had all been emptied. “My goodness, Richard. I hope you have stores for winter. These hounds will eat you out of house and home.”

  He turned back, expecting his friend to smile. To his surprise, York looked uncomfortable.

  “I told the cooks to feed as many as they could, but eight thousand! Even a single meal has stripped every larder and storeroom. I’ll send out hunting parties tomorrow, if this rain lets up a little.”

  Salisbury found himself yawning and smiled at the same time, so his jaw cracked.

  “You should get some sleep yourself, Richard. Hungry or full, you must rest. You and I are not as young as we were.”

  “You have a few years on me, old man,” York replied. “Anyway, I doubt I could sleep for worrying.”

  “Well, I cannot stay awake,” Salisbury said, yawning mightily once again. The hand he raised to his mouth was copied across the room and many of the men began to settle down where they sat, shoving and cursing for the best places by the fire. The dogs had already curled up and the castle had quietened around them, so that the stillness of a winter night stole upon them all.

  “I’m for bed, then,” Salisbury said. “If my bones are not too sore tomorrow, I’ll bring in a fine buck for you. We’ll have a roast in the yard for all those who missed a full share tonight.”

  York looked up from his maps for just an instant, smiling as the older man winked and made his way across the crowded floor.

  —

  IN THE DARKNESS, Derry Brewer cursed to himself, muttering under his breath as he trudged through leaf litter and felt his cloak snag on brambles for the thousandth time. He held up his lamp, but without opening the shutters it gave barely enough light for him to see his feet. The cloak tugged against his throat, choking him. In a temper, he pushed on like a horse in harness until the cloth tore free and sent him staggering. One of his boots sank into a pool of water up to his ankle.

  The forest was a frightening place at night, especially for one city born and bred. Derry had never gone poaching, unless robbing a butcher’s shop counted. The trees were not so much black as utterly invisible, with ferns and thorns clustered so deeply between them that he felt his skin was torn to ribbons already. He’d stopped to suck a wound on his hands a dozen times. More than once, he’d found small thorns embedded there for him to worry out with his teeth. The worst of it was when he’d startle some sleeping animal, so that it would explode against his legs, all terror and wet fur and wide eyes, barely glimpsed in his lamplight before whatever beast it was crashed through the undergrowth, hooting in warning. So far away from the haunts of man, Derry also failed to understand why any bird would roost on the ground, only to startle him with suddenly beating wings as he stepped past. Given a choice, he would have preferred the rookeries in London.

  He looked left and right, checking once again that he was keeping up with the line of lamps. They stretched as far as he could see in both directions as the army made their way deeper and deeper into the forest. Somerset had ordered silence on the outskirts, but still men swore and cursed as branches slapped their faces, bent back by those going before. Those who had armor were the only ones who could stride through the thickest briars, though even they could snag a foot, and when they fell, it made enough noise to wake heaven. Derry raised his eyes in disgust as one of them did just that, not forty paces away, some knight shouting a curse at the top of his voice as he twisted his ankle. If their business hadn’t been so serious, Derry would have seen the humor in it. As things were, he staggered grimly on with the rest, feeling as if every thorn or stinging branch, every plunging hole or drift of we
t leaves, sucked away some of his strength. They were just past midwinter and the nights were at their longest, but this one seemed to have no end at all.

  The line of lamps moved on. Trees dribbled fat drops above them, soaking them through. The rain had stopped for a time, but under the canopy the pattering went on for much longer, adding to their misery. The only glimmer of pleasure for Derry Brewer was that men like that pompous ass, Clifford, had been forced to dismount and trudge with the rest. He hoped the man fell into a badger sett, or better still, was bitten by something vicious.

  It had not been luck that had placed scouts around Sandal Castle, watching for York’s forces. Derry Brewer had sent those men out days before and yet, when he’d suggested it, Clifford had merely snorted at him and peered down his nose. By the time the scouts returned with news of York’s army, the baron was nowhere to be seen and Derry had not been able to enjoy the man’s embarrassment.

  Thick clouds made any glimpse of the moon or stars impossible, even if they could have seen through a canopy that would have looked much the same before the Romans had come. As he grew weary, Derry worried that they would either miss the fortress completely in the dark, or worse, break out onto the cleared land as the sun came up. He had never actually seen Sandal Castle and it was hard to make plans without that detailed knowledge.

  He took a moment to peer into his lamp, checking the candle within was not about to burn out. He saw the wick was sitting in a pool of tallow and searched his pouches for a replacement stub. It was much easier to light a new one from the old rather than trying to strike a flint in the dark, or make his way over to the next man. Without stopping, Derry carefully opened the side of the pewter box, reaching in. He could see the men around him more clearly as he did so, glimpsing a line of striding Scots, all turning to see who was lighting them up. Then the wind gusted and his candle went out, making him swear.

  “Keep that noise down!” someone said sharply, twenty paces or so behind.