When Edward was ready, he eyed his gauntlets and mail, along with the panels and straps of his leg armour. He wore such a weight of metal on most days that when he went without it, he felt as light as a boy. He patted the bulge of his stomach ruefully. His brother Richard’s wiriness was a constant taunt to him, an irritant. Edward sweated more and yes, he knew he was much heavier and slower too. Yet he felt the strength he needed in his arms and back and legs. Was that not his reason for such hunts, to restore the trim waist he had known?
He did not look at the great pile of lamb bones on the floor, where he had kicked away a platter earlier on. A man needed meat, to fight and to ride. It was only common sense. He stood as straight as he could, pulling in his belly and patting it. Better, definitely. Mostly muscle. The room lurched suddenly and he shuddered at the hot bitterness rising in his throat. He ignored the scattered armour, snatching only a sword belt from where he had thrown it. He nodded, satisfied, as he left the room, certain he had not yet let himself grow too fat.
By the time Edward emerged, the tavern had been forcefully emptied. Even the owner and his staff had been made to vanish, the king knew not where. He saw his brother Richard and a herald in York livery rising from a table to
kneel in his presence. Only one of his guards remained. Edward squinted down at the taproom. Sir Dalston, yes. Good eye for prey gone to earth, the man had.
Edward felt his thoughts drift, the drink still making him stupid and slow. He shook his head, but the sudden action just brought a fresh surge of acid and made the room swim. Dark depression clamped upon him, stealing away his first rush of confidence.
He knew another few hundred or so of his followers were camped in fields nearby, with greyhounds and bull mastiffs, with the king’s gyrfalcon and a score of spare horses. Friends and trusted lords drifted in and out of the great hunt, joining Edward for weeks until the regimen of vast quantities of meat, wine and ale had reduced them to trembling old men. Then they would return to their estates to recover their vitality, to the exasperation of their wives. In comparison, Edward seemed to thrive on the life.
As well as his brother Richard, there were others of high rank in the royal party. The king’s brother-in-law, Anthony, Earl Rivers, was present, slightly worn from a week of Edward’s drinking games. Barons Howard and Say had joined the hunt, no doubt with some awareness of the favour they might win from having the king’s ear. Earl Worcester was the last of the senior men, one with a reputation for savage treatment of the king’s enemies. Edward wondered how Worcester would react when news reached him of Warwick’s return. As Constable of England, Worcester had overseen the trials and execution of a number of Warwick’s followers over the previous months. He would not fare well if Warwick’s rebellion succeeded. Edward grimaced at that thought.
In all, he had perhaps a hundred and forty fighting men – and as many servants who could hold a blade, if their lives depended upon it. Edward swore under his breath as he
stood swaying on the steps. It was just not a large group, that was the truth of it. Yet he could not take an army with him every time he wanted to ride to the hunt or visit a lonely widow in some far-flung estate. Edward took a moment to run a hand through his wet hair. A king should be able to ride his own land without having to watch for enemies seeking him out. England always seemed so quiet, so unchanging. Yet it was a treacherous place. He looked down at his brother, imagining he could see scorn and angered further by the thought. As boys, they had not dreamed of a crown, nor dukedoms beyond that of York. Edward had won such things for them, raising them up by their belts and their collars, dragging them into the light. He did not deserve such dark glances from his brother. What would Richard have been without him? Some minor baron, he reminded himself, some forgotten man.
‘George is with him? Our brother?’ Edward said, his voice strained. He cleared his throat angrily, bringing a flush to his cheeks.
Richard winced and nodded.
‘Turned against us. With the archers and men-at-arms from his estates, I don’t doubt. George can put two or three thousand in the field, or even more. You know Warwick can do the same, without even a levy or a call to arms in the shires. As things stand, we have been caught out of place.’
‘I am not out of place so close to York, Brother!’ Edward said. He struggled to sound confident, though fingers of drunken darkness seemed to suck at him. ‘I called them once.’
Rather than argue, Richard sensed his brother’s hurt and confusion. His tone softened a touch as he went on.
‘They will come in the king’s name, Edward, yes. Of course they will. I have sent our lads out already with your
badges to rouse them from their beds. Every hour will bring more to our side, I don’t doubt it.’
He did not say it could not be done in time. The London herald had covered the two hundred miles in just two days, changing horses on good roads a dozen times. It had been a fine feat of horsemanship and endurance. Yet Richard of Gloucester had been Warwick’s ward and lived in his house for years. He admired many of his qualities – one of which was the ability to move quickly, where others dithered and discussed. It had led to errors in the past – to rash decisions made too quickly. In this case, on this day, it would mean Warwick was already on the road. Richard was certain of it.
Warwick had been at Towton. He had killed his own horse and fought on Edward’s right hand, with the young king in all the first flush of youth and strength. Richard of Gloucester knew Warwick would not leave the north to Edward, to a king who could raise armies. No. Warwick would be coming north with all the dice thrown into the air and every man he could call, buy or borrow, to make an ending.
Edward came unsteadily down the stairs, leaning on the banister. Richard swallowed, overwhelmed by the need to move and yet held perfectly still on that spot, by oath to the king, by loyalty to his brother.
Even without armour, even in bagging hose and with his pale belly showing under an open coat, Edward was a huge presence, a weight in the room that was only part due to his physical size. Lowering his great head so as not to crash it into the beams, Edward seemed to fill the tavern as a bear would, so that the guard edged back from him. Without a word, he pulled up a tall three-legged stool and seated himself, swaying and blinking. Richard knew then that his brother was still wildly drunk. No doubt the room was spinning as Edward sat and breathed out sour fumes.
‘Fetch His Highness a bucket,’ Richard murmured to the guard. Sir Dalston looked offended at the order, but scurried off and found a cracked and ancient leather pail. He deposited it at the foot of the king as if it was frankincense or myrrh, bent right over as he edged away. Edward appeared to watch him, but his eyes were glassy.
Richard’s temper surged. He would have slapped or shaken any other man to alertness, but his brother would not forgive such a slight, not ever. Edward was more than capable of rough horseplay with the guards or his knights, but there came a point and it never varied. The king would not allow himself to be humiliated, or dominated physically, in any way at all, no matter how slight. Richard still remembered Sir Folant de Guise, who had made the error of taking the king in a headlock when they’d been in their cups together. Edward had borne it for a single instant, then reached between the knight’s legs and practically torn his purse from his body. Richard’s lips tightened at the memory of Sir Folant’s high shriek.
They stood in perfect silence for a time, three men in a ring facing Edward on his stool, while he swayed and looked at nothing. He had raised an arm along the polished wood of the bar and they all started when he rapped suddenly on the wood with his knuckles.
‘Ale, here,’ he called. ‘To clear my head.’
‘
More
ale?’ Richard said in exasperation. ‘Are you not concerned at the news? Of Warwick marching north? Of George with him?’ The last was a needle of spite between them, spoken in part to wake Edward from his slack-jawed state. Their brother had fallen in love with Warwick’s daughter some years before. With awe-inspiring lack of foresight, the union had been forbidden by Edward. They had married then in secret. George had been driven towards Warwick by new
ties of family and loyalty – and when both men had been accused of treason, they had run together, with Warwick’s daughter about to give birth.
Richard of Gloucester watched in distaste as his brother’s demand for a drink was met by Sir Dalston, the knight edging around the bar and pulling the stopper from a cask. Sir Dalston was a burly knight who regarded the king with the same uncritical affection as did his mastiff hounds. The knight did not care how drunk Edward was or could become, only that the king had asked for ale. The king would have ale.
Richard watched as his brother was presented with a foaming earthenware jug, dark brown and glossy. His eyes opened wide and his smile was childlike as he grasped it in scarred hands and gulped and gulped, belching ferociously. The king began to beam at them, then leaned over suddenly and vomited on to the rush-covered floor, missing the bucket by some distance.
Richard breathed through his nose, holding a fist so tightly he could feel the muscles of his back draw. That made him open the hand immediately, fearing the first sharp twinge of the hot belt his muscles could become, like ropes pulling at him, or ribs turned and stuck in the wrong spot. With the wrong twitch, he could suffer a pain like a knife for weeks, with no way to shorten the time. His breaths would grow shallow and his shoulder blade would wing out, so that he felt it against his armour.
Richard looked on his brother with scorn and envy, mixed. Edward had driven Warwick away and fate had decreed his daughter would give birth at sea – and that the child would die before she ever reached land.
It should not have been enough to sunder three brothers, Richard thought, not beyond the first fury of tragedy. There
were few parents who had not lost two or three children, finding them still in the morning, or watching them fade with fever stealing their life and smiles away. Richard grimaced at the thought. He had no children of his own and he supposed he
would
blame the man who had driven him to sea, if he lost his first as a result. Certainly his letters to George had been returned unopened since then. There was rage there – and as yet no forgiveness.
When Edward sat straight again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, some of his wits had returned. He focused on the nervous herald, still standing with bowed head and no doubt wishing he was not a witness to the king’s drunkenness. Such things were remembered and not often forgiven.
‘You – herald. Tell me of Warwick’s rag and tag of whelk-fishermen and … bailiffs.’ Edward waved a hand in annoyance at his own stumbling words, aware that his thoughts still swam in deep pools.
‘Your Highness, as I told my lord Gloucester, I saw only the first morning, as they crossed the bridge in London and came into the city proper. There were thousands, Your Highness, though I was sent north before the full extent became apparent, in number or in strength of arms.’
Edward blinked slowly, nodding.
‘And my brother George was there with him?’
‘The Clarence banners were sighted, Your Highness, yes.’
‘I see. And my wife? What word of Elizabeth? My daughters?’
The herald squirmed, flushing deeply. Although he wished by then that he had waited for news of the royal family, he had been away at a wild gallop as soon as he had his orders.
‘I have no word of them, Your Highness, though I do not doubt they are safe.’
‘Is there any other thing you can tell me, lad?’ Edward said, peering at the man, who was at least a decade older than he was. The herald could only shake his head, his eyes bulging slightly. ‘No? Nothing? Then go back down the road to the south and scout for me. Seek out Warwick’s rabble and note well how far the man has marched in the days since.’
The herald was worn out, just about dead on his feet, but he only bowed and left quickly.
Richard looked sourly at his brother. He had wanted to question the man a little more thoroughly than Edward’s feeble effort, but the opportunity had been lost.
‘Another jug of ale here,’ Edward said loudly, looking around him. Richard’s last thread of temper frayed at that. He turned to his brother’s guard.
‘Sir Dalston, you will leave us alone.’
‘My lord, I …’
‘Get
out
!’ Richard snapped over him. He dropped a hand to his sword, knowing he was taking out his impotent anger on a man of lesser estate, but still unable to control himself. Sir Dalston grew pale and tight-lipped as he stood there, unmoving. Richard had the very real sense that the knight would draw his sword. He knew he would kill him if he did.
‘Go on, Dalston,’ Edward said, releasing the man from his duty. ‘I see my young brother wants a word in private. It is all right. Wait outside.’
Sir Dalston bowed his head, though his eyes remained sharp, even as they avoided the still hawkish glare coming from Richard.
‘Off you go,’ Richard said to his back, smiling as the man’s stride hitched and then resumed.
‘That was petty,’ Edward said as soon as they were alone. ‘Would you force a good man to show you his steel? So I had
to hang him? Why? Just to push a thorn into me? I have enough troubles – and too few men to lose one today.’
The words were still slurred, but Richard felt some of his fears ease. He needed his brother alert. Sober, Edward was the sun in flames he wore embroidered on his breast and set into the metal of his armour. He led as if he had been born to be a king – an ability as close to magic as Richard had ever seen.
Richard pulled in a great breath, forcing calm.
‘I am afraid,’ he said softly. ‘You know Warwick as well as I do. We’ve had no news of armies gathering from France. He must have had his spies working hard since last year, but this is the first I hear of this plot. And here we are, with a few dozen men, with winter almost upon us – and thousands on the road to take your crown.’