Margaret of Anjou

  Derry recognized Clifford’s voice and, in the pitch darkness, he was tempted to fall back and land the man a good belt while he couldn’t be seen. He clenched his jaw, moving across the line to the next swinging lamp instead. Hundreds of trudging men followed on his heels, needing his point of light to hold them on course. Without it, they’d wander off and vanish in the deep woods, never to be seen again.

  CHAPTER 32

  Salisbury awoke feeling old. His hips and lower back were just about locked solid, so that he had to sit and stretch out his legs while the sun rose, groaning softly as the aches became sharp pain and then dulled again, loosening. His packs had been unloaded the night before, the servants of Sandal working long after the rest of the castle had gone to sleep. He had no memory of anyone entering his room, but a fresh bowl of water and clean hose and undergarments had been laid out for him. He used a linen cloth to wipe himself down, cleaning away the old sweat and smell of horse from his skin. His questing hands found a thick earthenware pot under the bed and he placed it carefully on the dresser to empty his bladder, sighing to himself with closed eyes before dressing.

  A soft knock sounded at the door and Salisbury called “Enter!” admitting two servants.

  One carried a leather bundle of shaving materials and the other bore a bowl of steaming water, heated in the castle kitchens. He rubbed his chin, feeling the white bristles. Alice said they made him look like an old man when he let them grow. The fellow stropping a razor on a strip of leather seemed steady enough, but Salisbury was still sorry Rankin was not there. It took a certain level of trust to let another man near his throat with a knife. Salisbury grunted to himself, raising his eyes in amusement at his own caution while he took a seat. As the barber rubbed warm oil into his skin, Salisbury could hear his stomach creaking, close enough to a voice to make him chuckle. Eight thousand men would be waking with the same pangs of hunger and there was nothing for them.

  The sun was still rising as Salisbury reached the main yard, stopping at the door and looking out on the packed ground, still in the shadow of the walls so that frost gleamed on every surface. Many of the men were up and about, swinging their arms, blowing and stamping, doing anything they could to bring some life back to numb limbs. Others lay curled up, groaning and snoring in tightly packed groups like sleeping dogs. One enterprising captain was bullying and cajoling out a stream of those who had slept inside, ignoring their drowsy curses and sending half-frozen lads in to warm up. Salisbury approved. Good officers looked after their men.

  The earl shivered at the thought of spending the night outside. They were all young men, of course, but with December almost over, the cold was simply brutal. The thought made Salisbury raise his eyes to the keep, already lit gold. Three men stood up at the highest point, watching the cleared land all around the fortress and buffeted by a wind that must have chilled them to the marrow. They were not even allowed a brazier before the sun rose, for fear that the light would spoil their ability to watch for enemies. The men turned slowly as Salisbury watched them, sweeping their gaze back and forth with no sign of alarm.

  The earl collared a passing captain and passed on the responsibility of putting a hunting party together. It was one of the perks of his rank that he only had to stand and wait, blowing long plumes of mist through his hands, while the man sent runners to the stables and called for volunteers who wanted first choice of whatever meat they could find. Around thirty men raised their hands at that, the number trebling quickly as news spread of the hunt.

  Salisbury crossed the open ground as they began to gather at the gatehouse, fastening his cloak at his throat and wrapping himself in the thick folds. When he’d been young, he’d seen those who complained of the cold as somehow weaker than him. He just hadn’t felt it the way they seemed to then, though the passing years had stolen away much of his immunity. The wind seemed to reach over the walls, tugging and blustering at the men so that they staggered with the force of it. At least the sky was clear, a small blessing. Before the sunlight had spread right across the yard, Salisbury had mounted with three knight-captains and two hundred men waiting on foot to flush game. He was pleased to see a dozen carried bows and quivers. They’d need anything they could find to feed so many in the castle, from birds and rabbits even to foxes or wolves unlucky enough to cross their path. The kitchen spits would take any living thing for roasting, though Salisbury hoped most of all to bring back a fine doe or stag.

  The soldiers at the gatehouse whistled up to those in the keep. Those shivering men stared out one last time before calling “Clear!” down to them. The massive wooden door was pushed outwards and the portcullis raised. Six soldiers pushed the drawbridge out, dropping it into its ruts over the gap.

  Salisbury looked out at a sodden field beyond the outer moat, with patches of water shining in the morning sun. He mounted as the first ranks of archers marched out, chatting and laughing with each other as they went. The forest lay ahead of them, at the end of half a mile of open land, an artificial line marked by the groundskeepers of centuries before and never allowed to grow too close to the castle.

  With the gate open, every man within seemed to tense, made suddenly vulnerable, so that hands crept to sword hilts and hundreds stood who had been lying down. Salisbury rode out, feeling his heart beat faster with sheer joy as the exertion brought life to his limbs and blood coursing through him. His hips settled back into aching pain, but he ignored it, looking ahead for the best spot to enter the tree line. By his side and behind him, two hundred men broke into a trot, breathing harder as they strung bows and called out to friends. Behind them, the drawbridge was taken up, leaving a yawning gap down to the moat. The portcullis was winched back down to its slots in the stone and the castle gate was drawn in and barred once more. Salisbury looked back at the castle, seeing one of the guards on the keep raise his hand to them. He replied with the same gesture as his troop of hunters crossed the cleared land and approached the tree line, still in deep shadow.

  —

  YORK CAME AWAKE SUDDENLY, jerking up in his bed and wondering vaguely what had dragged him from sleep. He had stayed up very late, marking his maps and trying to plan for every possible combination of forces against him. For a moment, he turned over and began to drift back to sleep once again, then another horn sounded, high above his head.

  The keep.

  He threw himself out of bed, stripping off his bedshift and yanking on tunic and hose without conscious thought, swearing as he found one of his boots had somehow vanished under the bed in the night. His cloak hung over a chair and he grabbed it along with his sword and baldric, stumbling out into the corridor and strapping the weapon over his shoulder and around his waist as he went. The horn sounded again, over and over, the call to arms, to rouse the fortress against an enemy force. York began to run, shoving his loose hair back from where it fell over his face.

  He skidded on icy stones as he came out into the yard. On the roof of the keep, the guards were pointing out over the walls. Soldiers were gathering already at the gatehouse, readying weapons and tugging mail shirts over their tunics. York crossed the second drawbridge over the inner moat, rushing through the barbican and hearing yelling voices pass on the threat. Earl Salisbury was outside Sandal, he understood that much. His mind was a fog, still struggling to understand what was going on.

  He pounded up stone steps and entered the keep itself, taking internal stairs to the roof where he arrived, panting. York stared over the grassy field to the darker line of forest in the distance. It was a quiet scene and he turned in confusion to the guards watching him.

  “What did you see?” he demanded.

  The guard captain tensed his jaw, his gaze flickering to a younger man who would not look up from his boots.

  “My lord, I was facing south. Young Tennen here said he saw some disturbance in the trees as the hunters went into the forest. It may have been no more than game flushed from hiding, but
my orders . . .”

  “No, he was right,” York replied. “I would rather be dragged from sleep over nothing than surprised in my bed. Look at me, lad. Tell me what you saw.”

  The young man stumbled over his answer, his eyes glazed as he looked anywhere but at the Duke of York.

  “The front ranks went in without a whisper, my lord. All quiet. Then they gave a shout and I thought I heard fighting. The rest of them rushed forward all at once and then they were gone and I blew the horn. That’s all I know, my lord. It were the noise, more than anything I saw. Hunters don’t yell, my lord, not as I know it.”

  York turned away, staring out at deep woods that suddenly seemed to possess a gloomy menace as he peered into them.

  “How many went out?”

  The guard captain answered him.

  “I saw them forming up at the gatehouse, my lord. Two hundred, at least. Some with bows.”

  “Not brigands, then. Two hundred soldiers would be too many for a few ragged thieves.” York cracked his knuckles, his hands clenching.

  “You’ve heard nothing since?” he said to the younger guard.

  The man shook his head mutely.

  “Stay here then, and keep watch. Call down anything you see at all. There is an army within a day’s march of this fortress. If they are in my woods, I want to—”

  He broke off as a small group of men came racing out of the trees, sprinting across the open ground. There could have been no more than forty of them, running like hares. York gaped, seeing that they had their eyes on the keep and were gesturing. Some of them pointed back into the shadowy trees behind.

  “Christ!” York spat, running back down as fast as he could go. He managed to stay on his feet, though the stairs blurred under him and his steps thundered as he crossed the inner drawbridge to the main yard.

  “Form on the gate!” he roared across the open ground. “Prepare for attack! My horse! To me.”

  It felt like the blink of an eye since he had been warm and asleep under the blankets. York shook his head, forcing calm where panic might destroy him. Salisbury was out there and he had come under attack. The only response was to overwhelm whoever was fighting in the trees, to throw every man in Sandal Castle at them.

  York saw his son Edmund among those about to pass through the main gate. His heart pounded hard enough to make him feel faint and he reached out and pulled the young man close to him, bending his head to speak.

  “Edmund, take the lover’s door out, on the west side. You know where it is. Get far away from here and wait out the day.” The tiny door was hidden high on the outer wall, invisible to any attacker. Yet York had shown it to his sons, parting thick ivy to show them where one man at a time might escape. Calling it the lover’s door hid its true purpose, a secret way out when the fortress was about to fall.

  His son looked shocked at the suggestion.

  “Is it an attack, then? The queen’s forces?”

  “I don’t know,” York snapped. “Either way, you are not part of it, Edmund. Take two men with you and use the door. I can’t be worrying about you today.”

  He reached out and kissed his son on the cheek, embracing him for an instant. “Go!”

  Edmund might have spoken again, but his father turned his back as his horse and armor were brought. York sat on a tall stool placed under him, while servants bound and strapped thigh-plates and spurred boots onto his feet. He saw his son was still standing there, looking longingly through the main gate as it opened, revealing the desperate men trying to get back in.

  “Go!” York roared at him, startling Edmund into movement.

  York stepped away from the stool in a sudden motion as the hunters came rushing past. He grabbed one of them by the jerkin, almost taking him off his feet with the violent check to his speed.

  “Who attacks us?” York demanded.

  “I didn’t see any colors, my lord. I thought I heard them call ‘Percy,’ but they were coming from all directions and I was—”

  “How many? Where is Salisbury?” York shouted, making the man cringe in fear.

  “I didn’t see, my lord! There were many men, but the trees! I don’t . . .”

  With a growl, York shoved him aside. His men were pouring out across the drawbridge, forming ranks outside the fortress like grain spilling over the land, shuffling aside to let more and more come out into the light.

  York went out to them as soon as he was encased in armor, walking his mount through and holding his helmet and sword in one hand. Outside the walls, he could feel the wind that blasted across the open ground, carrying the scent of ice with it. He shoved his helmet down, fastening the strap at his throat. He nodded to the soldier who offered his clasped hands, putting his metal boot onto them and mounting in one swift movement. He heard the man curse as a spur sliced the ball of his thumb, but York didn’t look down. Instead, he raised and then sharply dropped his hand.

  The captains roared the order to march while half their number were still inside the fortress. Sandal had not been designed for thousands trying to get out, but York was imagining Salisbury being brought down like dogs on a bear. He could feel every passing moment as a stab of fear and anger, and he would not wait. He walked his horse with the line, staring at the dark trees with something approaching dread. His head jerked up to listen as a horn sounded somewhere in that thicket of shadow and green shade, a thin weak sound, far away.

  “With me!” York bellowed along the line. He dug in his spurs and his horse jerked into a trot, the reins held like bars of metal along its neck.

  The men doubled their pace, jogging across the field with him, leaving the castle and safety behind.

  —

  SALISBURY CRIED OUT IN PAIN as something whirred past his eyes, striking his shoulder and vanishing into the bushes. His horse reared, kicking out at someone below as they grabbed for his reins. The forest had come alive with men, running in silently from every direction. Salisbury had turned and turned again, thanking God he had brought his sword and swinging it in great arcs that kept them away. The men with him were fighting savagely to keep themselves alive and the earl safe. He wasn’t certain by then which way Sandal Castle even lay, but he knew he had to break free, if he was to have any chance at all.

  They’d barely entered the deep wood when the assault had begun. Salisbury still had no idea if the enemy had been waiting for him, or if he’d sprung an ambush before they were ready. None of that would matter if he couldn’t get back, yet the chances were vanishing before his eyes as the soldiers around him were cut down. Most of his hunting party wore mail shirts, garments so valuable that they would never be left behind. They had no shields though, and precious few heavy blades, just daggers and small axes that a man might carry on his belt. Those who sprang at them in the gloom between the trees swung war-axes and long swords and wore helmets and mail of their own.

  On the far edge, some of Salisbury’s men broke and ran, cursed by those they left behind. He could understand it, God knew he could understand it. Wherever he looked, men were creeping up on him and his sword arm was growing tired. They seemed to rise out of the thick bracken, faces scratched and torn and stained green, teeth bared as they grabbed his men and struck and struck until they breathed blood and fell.

  One of his hunters had tried to blow a horn, the sound barely begun before an arrow slotted through his chest and he collapsed. Another snatched it up and tried to run and blow the note at the same time. He was stopped by a mailed arm held out like a bar, so that he crashed down to his back, and flung the horn to a third. That man blew a long note and somehow lost his nerve in doing so, sprinting away through the thick undergrowth with three enemy soldiers on his trail.

  Salisbury looked around, feeling terror and a sense of helplessness. There was no end to them, and his men were being murdered all around. He dug in his heels and the horse lunged over a bush, snortin
g and screaming in thick panting breaths. The earl saw a man running between two trees and launching himself in a great leap at him. He swung his sword and felt the blade cut before he was sent tumbling onto his back. His horse bolted then and Salisbury could only watch it go, stirrups flying wild.

  A bearded man dropped onto him, appearing from nowhere. Salisbury struggled, but he was much weaker. The man was snarling in Scots Gaelic as he brought an ax up over his head.

  “Pax! Ransom!” Salisbury yelled, seeing every pore and scratch on the man’s wild face.

  To his relief, his attacker got off him and backed away, breathing hard and leaning on the long handle of the ax, watching him. As Salisbury sat up and tried to speak, the young Scot lunged with sudden speed and punched him into blackness.

  —

  YORK HEARD THE HORSE before he saw it. His own mount was struggling through the trackless forest, forced away from the wandering threads of animal paths by the need to keep in line with his men. He reined in at the sound of pounding hooves and his heart sank when he recognized Salisbury’s mount, running berserk and already battered by all the thorns and branches it had scraped through. The panicking animal saw no way through the line of men and they held shields up to it, forcing it to come to a skidding halt and spinning in place, kicking out.

  “Let it through!” York cried out to them, pressing on. “They can’t be far away now.”

  He could see some of the path the animal had made and he tried to follow it back, though it jinked and turned so many times it was almost impossible. He thought he could hear a noise ahead and he held his arm out straight until his captains saw it and repeated the gesture, halting the lines of men in silence.

  The woods became still, all animals and birds long fled from their presence. York craned to catch the direction he needed and then made out the sounds of moving men, the calls and voices of enemies in his forest. On his land.