Loyalty (3 page)

   “This hawk stoops to gather you all…”

   Richard was dead, hacked to pieces on the battlefield at Empingham, where the usurper had smashed the rebel army of Sir Robert Welles. Richard’s men had died with him, or else fled the field. The outlaw known as the White Hawk was no more, leaving just a fragment or two of verse that would soon be forgotten.

   And yet Martin had shouted the old battle-cry during the fight aboard the carrack. It had risen unbidden in his throat. He could not escape that legacy, any more than he could expunge the blood of his ancestors from his veins.

   Martin clenched his fists. “I am my own man,” he said aloud, though no-one could have heard him.

   The hollow words were swept away on the breeze, replaced by the mocking, high-pitched cries of gulls wheeling far overhead.

Chapter 3

Westminster

King Edward was in a rage. In general he was of a calm, even-tempered disposition, but the latest news from France had ignited the dark passions beneath his charming surface.

   A full-fledged Plantagenet rage was something to behold, albeit from a safe distance. Sir Geoffrey Malvern waited just outside the doorway of the private audience chamber where Edward was giving full vent to his spleen. Geoffrey had witnessed these rages before. They didn’t last long, and Edward usually recovered his poise very soon after the storm had blown itself out.

   The king was a huge man, tall and muscular and powerfully-built through constant hunting and exercise. His presence was intimidating at the best of times, but now, with his eyes flashing fire and his fleshy face swollen with angry blood, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth, he was truly terrifying.

   “Is there no end to Warwick’s perfidy?” he screamed, brandishing the tattered remnant of a letter under the nose of a quivering, ashen-faced clerk, “no end to his treachery, his faithlessness, to the blackened depths of his perjured soul? Eh?”

   The clerk mumbled that he knew not, Majesty, while keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. Geoffrey almost pitied the man, and the rest of the courtiers and men-at-arms gathered in the room. All were careful to avoid meeting the king’s eye as he hurled away the letter and called the wrath of God down on the heads of the Earl of Warwick, the Duke of Clarence, the King of France, and all who supported them.

   Geoffrey leaned against the wall and mused on recent events while Edward enlarged on his theme, describing King Louis, among other things, as the dog-faced son of a syphilitic whore who ought to have been drowned at birth.

   After the defeat of the rebels at Empingham, Warwick and Clarence had abandoned any pretence of loyalty to Edward, and fled the country after an aborted attempt at raising a new army. The king had pursued them all the way to Dartmouth. Geoffrey was still pained by the saddle-sores of that gruelling series of forced marches, almost three hundred miles lasting nineteen days.

   The news that Warwick had attacked and plundered a Flemish merchant fleet had briefly lifted Edward’s spirits. The fleet had been on its way to Burgundy at the time, loaded down with wines and silks and other goods. Duke Charles reportedly flew into a rage to rival Edward’s when he heard of this act of piracy, and personally gone to the port of Sluys to fit out a fleet of warships, with the intention of putting to sea and hunting down the renegade English earl.

   “I don’t want any wine, you God-damned scrivener,” Edward roared, interrupting the train of Geoffrey’s thought. One of the clerks hurried out and fled down the corridor, whimpering in fear and pursued by a silver wine goblet.

   Edward’s fury at the King of France, known as Louis the Prudent (or The Spider by those less fond of him) for his clever policy, was understandable. When Warwick had sailed into the port of Honfleur, closely pursued by the English fleet under Lord Howard, he sent a message to Louis asking him for protection.

   Louis had granted it. The potential consequences of that decision added an edge of paranoia to Edward’s rage. The exiled Queen, Margaret of Anjou was in France, sheltering at her family home at Saumur in Anjou. Her son, the now-teenage Prince Edward, was with her. What if Warwick chose to throw in his lot with the exiled Queen, and attempt to restore the House of Lancaster to power?

   Geoffrey enjoyed the King’s favour, but was not quite in his inner circle of close friends and advisors. If he was, he would have advised Edward to remove one glaring problem by doing away with Henry VI, lodged these past ten years as a prisoner in the Tower. Despite being hopelessly insane, Henry was regarded as the rightful king by surviving Lancastrians. Loyalty to an anointed king died hard, and they still drank his health in remote northern castles and Welsh strongholds.

   None of that was Geoffrey’s direct concern. He had come to Westminster, not to advise King Edward, but to beg him to grant a favour.

   All had gone quiet inside the audience chamber. He peered around the doorframe and saw that Edward had subsided into his chair, muttering and chewing his lip, his big fists clenching and unclenching. The king was still agitated, but some of the high colour had drained from his face. His guards and courtiers stood with bowed heads. Not one of them dared to utter a sound.

   Geoffrey hesitated. Perhaps he should wait? It was a risk to approach the king in the aftermath of a royal tantrum, and Geoffrey preferred to avoid risks. On the other hand, Edward’s natural generosity and affable temper usually returned in a flood.

   He took a deep breath, composed himself, and strode into the chamber.  

   “Majesty,” he said, doffing his hat and executing a graceful bow on the carpet before the king’s chair, “I apologise for my intrusion.”

   He looked up and quailed when he saw Edward glaring balefully at him. The king looked displeased.

   “I did not send for you, Sir Geoffrey,” he rumbled, resting his chin on his fist, “what do you want?”

   Geoffrey swallowed hard before replying. “I…I come to beg a request, Majesty,” he said, “a grant of land.”

   Edward’s face darkened. “Just three manors, Majesty,” Geoffrey gabbled on. He was beginning to fear he had made a terrible mistake. “They are in Shropshire, and of no great significance. Their previous owners, the Boltons, have been attainted. The lord fought against Your Majesty at Empingham, and was killed there.”

   Geoffrey recalled this satisfaction. After the rebel host fled, he had picked over the battlefield at Empingham and discovered Richard Bolton’s corpse. It was mangled almost beyond recognition by gun-shot and halberd wounds. The banner of the White Hawk had lain nearby, muddy and trampled during the rout, and now resided in a locked chest at Malvern Hall.

   The sight of his old enemy, lying lifeless and torn to pieces at his feet, had filled Geoffrey with a warm glow of pleasure. He drew some morsel of comfort from the memory, and met the king’s eyes with a show of courage.

   “In Shropshire,” said Edward, “your family seat is there, is it not?”

   Relief washed through Geoffrey as he detected the hint of a smile on Edward’s lips. The king, by his own admission, could never resist a rogue.

   “Malvern Hall, sire,” Geoffrey replied, “lies just a few miles from Heydon Court, the largest of the three manors I wish to claim.”

   The tension in the room palpably eased as Edward stretched and relaxed in his chair, like a bear shaking off his troubles.

   “I have never heard of the Boltons,” he said, stifling an exaggerated yawn, “so many families have been attainted. Bloody Lancastrians. Why can’t they accept that their cause is lost? You say the lord is dead, and the rest of his kin have fled the kingdom?”

   Geoffrey nodded gravely. “Yes, Majesty. My steward informs me that Heydon Court stands empty. I suspect that the family has fled abroad in the company of the Earl of Warwick.”

   Mention of Warwick caused Edward’s jaw to tighten. “There is good land in Shropshire,” he said, “we can’t have it going to waste, and allow crops to rot away in the fields, due to the treachery of their landlords. We must appoint men in their stead. Loyal men.”

   Geoffrey stood, palpitating, while Edward weighed him up.

   “We will look into the matter,” the king said at last, “and, for the present, make no promises. However, your constant loyalty and good service shall be borne in mind.”

   “Thank you, Majesty,” Geoffrey said humbly, “there is one other matter I would address.”

   “Name it, while our patience lasts.”

   “I have a niece, Kate. She is sixteen, a woman grown, and it is time she was married. I would see her wed to a gentleman of good standing, and loyal to Your Majesty.”

   Edward smiled. “I’m sure you would. And you would place the matter in our hands, as if we did not have enough to trouble us!”

   He said this with the merest trace of his former irritation. “Go, Sir Geoffrey,” he said wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose and waving the supplicant away, “leave your hopes with us. Everyone else does.”

   Geoffrey bowed his way out, ignoring the cynical glances of the courtiers. Not an entirely successful foray, he reflected, but the king’s amiable response had given him hope.

Chapter 4

Anjou, France

The heat of high summer was beyond oppressive. James had never been outside of England before, though he had often dreamed of visiting the South of France, along with Italy and the Holy Land.

   Now his dream was partially fulfilled, and the reality was threatening to bake him alive. He wore light doublet and hose, with a wide-brimmed hat against the glare of the sun, which hung in the cloudless azure blue sky like a great copper shield, but still the sweat rolled off him.

   He and his companion, a French knight, rode along wide dirt roads flanked by acres of vineyards, stretching away as far as the eye could see. Behind them rode sixteen men-at-arms.

   Saumur in Anjou was one of the wine-producing regions that made up the Loire Valley. The sight of the vines merrily ripening in the sun was a severe test of James’ resolve. He had not touched a real drink for over eight years.

   “Oh Lord,” he muttered, rubbing his dust-dry throat, “do not let my strength fail now. Banish thoughts of temptation from my mind. Banish all thoughts of sweet, sparkling white wines that soothe the throat like golden honey. Banish all thoughts of strong, heavy red wines that cloud the judgment and yet lift the heart. Banish them, Oh Lord, for the sake of thy poor servant, who yearns for nothing more than a drink. Sweet Christ, just one drop of drink.”

   “There is water in your pottle,” remarked the knight, whose name was Gauvain, with a knowing grin, “slake your thirst with some of God’s natural wine.”

   The knight had been James’ companion since Paris, from where they had both been dispatched with a message from King Louis to Margaret of Anjou. Five days on the road from the capital had been enough for the two men to get to know each other a little, though James was naturally cautious about the information he chose to dole out.

   For a big, brutal-looking knight at arms, Gauvain was irritatingly perceptive. He also had very good hearing.

   “Every man has a weakness,” the Frenchman said, slapping James on the back with the same over-familiar manner he had exhibited since Paris, “mine is women. I have buried three wives, fathered fourteen children, and next month I am set to marry again, a sweet-faced little girl from Blois. I must be mad, don’t you think?”

   James shrugged him off. In the last few days he had learned more than he could possibly want to about Gauvain’s marital history.

   They rode on for a while, in the sticky and clinging heat, until James spotted the distant silhouette of the Cháteau le Dampierre, its towers rising above the trees of a little wood. Unlike castles in England, which generally had a stern, functional look about them, the cháteau had an almost fairytale appearance, with a tiled roof and pretty blue spires.

   Gauvain’s crude features twisted in a grimace. “I suspect our work is doomed,” he said with a sniff, “Queen Margaret is a hellish proud woman, so they say, and milord Warwick has dealt her too many blows in the past. She will cast his offer into the fire, and send us bootless back to Paris.”  

   James privately shared his doubts, but felt obliged to refute them. “Pride is a luxury,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “one she will have to set aside, at least for a time, if she wants to see England and her husband again. Warwick is her only hope, and she his.”

   “A marriage of convenience,” said Gauvaine with another of his face-splitting grins, “the worst kind, in my experience. And I have a great deal of experience.”  

   James hurriedly clapped in his spurs before Gauvaine could lavish him with further details. 

   The cháteau was smaller than he had imagined, scarcely a fit place for a Queen of England to reside, but he was aware that Margaret’s circumstances were much reduced. Driven out of her adopted land, with few friends save a handful of diehard loyalists who had followed her into exile, she relied on a pension from her father, Duke René of Anjou, to sustain her meagre court. The duke was notoriously parsimonious, and there was apparently little love lost between the tight-fisted old man and his formidable daughter.