Authors: David Pilling
“Are you all right? Nothing broken, I trust?”
Prince Edward’s voice was full of concern for his newest friend. Martin glanced up at him, the slender, well-made figure in gleaming armour, every inch a knightly paladin. The prince’s visor was raised, and his handsome features looked down at Martin with genuine anxiety.
Martin forced a smile. “Just my pride, Majesty,” he said, getting shakily to his feet.
Edward smiled. “The daughter of a mare has failed you,” he said, inclining his head towards Ash, who had wandered off to sulk in a corner, “but your father’s sword never shall.”
Martin winced, and the prince instantly realised his mistake. “God help me, I am sorry,” he said, “I didn’t think…it is just a saying.”
The prince had briefly forgotten that the sword once wielded by Martin’s father was lost, discarded somewhere on Towton field when Richard Bolton escaped the rout and destruction of the Lancastrian army.
The actual sword that Martin carried was a cheap, ill-balanced thing, snatched in haste from the armoury at Heydon Court on the night he and his kin had fled their home. His armour was a mixture of gear borrowed from the French, some of it quite antiquated. Like many of the Lancastrians-in-exile, Martin had fetched up on the shores of France with little money, and had to make the best of what he could get.
In his ill-assorted armour, he looked more like a common mercenary than a man of noble blood, and felt it. His brief experience as a pirate had given him a taste for adventure far beyond the narrow confines of life as a country gentleman in Staffordshire. Part of him longed to shake off the chains of duty and responsibility that kept him tethered to the failing cause of Lancaster and Henry VI. His better self always prevailed in the end, reinforced by his enduring love for Kate Malvern.
Martin often stood on the city walls at night and gazed north, wondering what was happening to his fiancée across the sea. Whether she had stayed true to her promise to him, or had given him up for lost and betrothed some other man.
The sergeant-at-arms who witnessed the joust fetched Ash and led her back to her master.
“Should I rub her down?” he asked with a wry smile, “or have her shot?”
“Take her to the stables,” said Edward before Martin could reply, “and mine as well.”
He handed the sergeant the reins of his horse, and took Martin’s arm.
“Come, let’s drink together,” said Edward. Knowing it was best not to refuse, Martin allowed himself to be led towards a bench at the foot of a high wall.
It was a hot day in late summer, but cool and shaded under the wall. Edward had set aside a jug of watered wine and two cups for their use. He invited Martin to sit, and set about pouring two measures.
“I’m sorry if you were hurt,” said Edward, handing Martin one of the cups, “my lord of Oxford is a fine man, but no judge of horses. A beast that won’t carry you into battle is no good at all. We shall have to find you another.”
“A toast,” he added, raising his cup, “to the confusion of our enemies across the water, and the restoration of the King in the Tower.”
Martin drank to that. His throat was dry from the exercise and the heat, and he was grateful for the refreshment.
He winced and rubbed his shoulder. He had bruised it badly when he fell. The pain would irritate him for days.
“You may be wondering,” said Edward, sitting down, “why I chose to befriend you. It is not every man who enjoys the favour of a future King of England.”
“I assumed it is because we are of an age,” Martin said politely.
In truth he had wondered at it. Ever since his arrival at Angers with the Earl of Warwick, the young prince had taken a liking to him, and insisted on his company. There were other youths at the palace provided by King Louis, but most were French, and Edward preferred to cultivate the friendship of Englishmen.
There was something else. Martin drank some more wine and studied the Lancastrian heir. He was only a year or so Edward’s senior, but felt like an old man beside this nervous, excitable chick, over-keen to impress the world with his courage and martial prowess.
“My mother thinks highly of your sister,” said Edward, giving Martin what he no doubt considered a shrewd look, “and likes to talk to her of an evening, after she is done with politics for the day. Did you know that?”
Martin nodded. The Queen did seem to favour Mary, but then she favoured all the wives and widows of Lancastrians who had followed her into exile.
Edward stared bleakly into his cup. “She doesn’t allow me into the council chamber. She says she wants me to remain pure and uncorrupted by politics for as long as possible. Not so pure, that she will hesitate to use me as a pawn.”
Martin thought he understood the meaning of this. As part of the unlikely pact between Warwick and the Queen, Edward’s mother had agreed to marry her son to Warwick’s daughter, Anne.
That meant the earl now had two daughters married into the royal bloodline. Martin was amused by Warwick’s naked ambition, but had no liking for him, and wished he had a better master.
Perhaps, when the time was right, he might ask James to speak in private to the Earl of Oxford. He could claw back some pride and self-respect by switching his allegiance to a true Lancastrian.
“Mother does confide in me sometimes, though,” said Edward, “she knows that your sister is a widow, and who her husband was. When I was just a child, we were forced to flee into the Welsh hills, after our army was destroyed at Northampton. Once we crossed the border, our servants betrayed us. They robbed us and plundered the baggage. I remember one foul brute stripping the rings from mother’s fingers. Can you imagine her despair?”
Martin had heard the story, but remained silent. The prince was in a mood to talk, and he knew enough to know that one did not interrupt royalty.
“Only one man stayed with us,” said Edward, “his name was Henry of Stafford. He was one of the old Duke of Buckingham’s bastards. You will remember him.”
The blow was unexpected. Martin’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment he couldn’t speak. Henry of Stafford was his sister’s late husband, slaughtered on the field at Towton. Martin had been just a child when Henry rode away to war for the last time, but vividly recalled his bluff, generous nature, and the depth of his love for Mary.
“That little dark-haired girl who follows your sister about like a puppy…” began Edward.
“She is Henry’s daughter,” Martin replied with difficulty, wiping his eyes, “her name is Elizabeth, after her grandmother. I did not know of the service Henry performed in Wales.”
Edward laid his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Your father, your brother, and your brother-in-law all ended on Yorkist blades,” he said quietly, “can there be a family in England that has spilled less blood in my cause? I cannot bring your murdered kin back to life, but vow to make amends to the living. When we have crossed the sea and rammed our swords down the usurper’s throat, I will heap you with lands and titles, Martin Bolton. You will be one of my most trusted advisors.”
Martin was grateful for the prince’s friendship, but not convinced that his fine promises would ever be carried out.
Warwick and his allies had managed to scrape together several thousand men, most of them supplied by King Louis, but they were trapped on dry land. The English fleet under Lord Howard had control of the seas, and blockaded the French ports where Warwick’s remaining ships were berthed.
The rebel lords assembled at Angers wearied Heaven with their prayers, beseeching God to send a storm to scatter the Yorkist fleet.
Incredibly, God answered them. At the beginning of September, the skies over the Channel darkened, and a great storm descended.
For seven days the sea was swept clean of shipping from Calais to Dover. When the clouds finally dispersed, there was not a vessel in sight off the French coast. Lord Howard’s blockading fleet was hopelessly scattered, and the way was clear for invasion.
Chapter 7
Staffordshire
The wedding of Kate Malvern and Sir Edmund Ramage was held at Cromford church, on a golden day in late August. It was well-attended, since all the gentry in the district knew how high Kate’s uncle, Sir Geoffrey, stood in favour at court, and so came in force to grease their way into his affections.
Even the High Sheriff, Sir John Stanley, made an appearance. Stanley was a firm Yorkist and an old ally of the Malverns and Ramages. A tall, severe-looking man, though grey-haired now and somewhat stooped, he stood at Geoffrey’s side during the ceremony.
Geoffrey barely deigned to notice him. There was a time, not many years past, when he would have been hugely gratified by the presence of the Sheriff. Nowadays he was rather too grand to be impressed by such petty local officials.
King Edward had made Geoffrey a viscount for his loyal services – His Majesty was blissfully unaware that most of Geoffrey’s services had consisted of skulking, whining, shirking his duty and hiding behind better men – and granted him six fat manors scattered about the country. At court, this made him a baron of the middling rank, but in Staffordshire he ranked among the highest. Being the man he was, Geoffrey never missed an opportunity to remind his neighbours of the fact.
Late summer sun lanced through the ancient little church’s single window, bathing the interior in green, blue and copper-red light as the light shone through the tinted glass. The panes were painted with the images of four heraldic shields, depicting the arms of Ramage, Malvern, Huntley and Bolton. The sight of the white hawk of Bolton filled Geoffrey with hatred and loathing.
The Huntleys are extinct,
he thought,
and the White Hawk is no more. I saw him die at Empingham. I saw his blood stain the grass.
He was well aware that a few of Richard Bolton’s kin had fled into exile, abandoning their houses and manors. King Edward had not yet seen fit to grant them to Geoffrey, and the knowledge that so much profitable land was going to waste gnawed at him. No doubt the two remaining Bolton brothers were among the army that the Earl of Warwick was assembling across the Channel.
Let them come, and soon, before the King has time to summon me to join his host. Let all the fighting be done with before I have time to leave Staffordshire.
“The bride looks a little pale,” Stanley’s dry voice murmured into his ear, “is she sick?”
Geoffrey glanced at him with irritation. The chaplain, Reverend Doe, was struggling through the preamble – Geoffrey suspected that his Latin was not all it should be – and the guests were growing restless. It behoved those at the front to be silent.
“Nerves, that is all,” he replied in a barely audible whisper.
Stanley didn’t need to know, but Geoffrey’s niece was suffering from rather more than nerves. Her uncle’s unexpected return to Malvern Hall, and his announcement that she was to marry Edmund Ramage, a man thirty years her senior, had driven Kate into a storm of fury and despair.
“Be quiet,” Geoffrey had ordered, alarmed by the force of her reaction, “you are a woman grown, and it is time you were married. Edmund is a widower and an old friend of the family. He will make you a fine husband.”
“That old goat?” she screamed, her voice choked with passion, “you would condemn me to a life of misery with him, just to get me off your hands. He is old enough to be my grandfather. He disgusts me. He smells foul, he is bald, and he has no wit or grace or charm. I will hate you for this, uncle; hate you for the rest of my days!”
In the end, fearful that she might have hysterics, Geoffrey had ordered two burly serving-men to carry his niece to her bedchamber and lock her inside until she calmed down. Kate had remained there for three days, refusing to eat or talk.
After a time Geoffrey started to suspect that there was rather more to his niece’s distress than mere indignation at being married off to an older man. That was a fate reserved for a great many young noblewomen, and one she cannot have been ignorant of.
“She probably has a sweetheart hidden away somewhere,” he told himself, “some damnable young buck with a charming smile and wandering hands. She had better be a virgin. Ramage will not want soiled goods.”
He briefly toyed with the idea of ordering the serving-women to examine Kate’s maidenhead, but decided against it. Kate’s mother was still alive, though she preferred to live with their cousins at Hereford. Always a cold and distant mother, Eleanor Malvern would nevertheless be outraged to learn that her daughter had been so ill-used.
In the end Geoffrey lost patience and stormed up the stairs to confront his niece. He unlocked the door and booted it open.
A tray of food and jug of wine lay untouched at the foot of the bed. Kate lay on the bed in her night-gown. She covered her face with her hands as he entered the room and kicked the door shut behind him.
“I want the truth, my girl,” he said, planting his fists on his hips, “you know I will get it in the end. Who is he, and has he dishonoured you?”
His niece was a sight that might have moved a gentler man to pity. Already painfully thin, three days of fasting had left her emaciated. Her long chestnut hair was unbound and spread out in a loose, straggling mess, making her look like a mad beggar.