‘Well he didn’t, and neither did you,’ York snapped. ‘You say Roseblood may have it.’ He shrugged one shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ He added in a half-whisper, ‘I am sure our French bitch-queen will think the same as me: at least Argentine is dead and his prattling tongue is silenced for ever.’ He got to his feet. ‘The diffidatio, this renunciation of homage, is completed. Strange,’ he mused, gesturing around. ‘This was once an exorcism chamber, a holy place to eject demons and drive them out through the north door. Today, Sevigny, I will exorcise mine—’ He broke off abruptly and strode out of the chamber, calling over his shoulder that the rest of his household would be waiting to receive the Franciscan delegation.
Sevigny stood listening to his former lord stride away. He realised why York had stopped himself so sharply. The duke had been on the verge of conceding that whatever the Franciscans said or offered, he intended to attack immediately. Such suspicions had been pricked when Sevigny first arrived in the camp the night before. He had seen the preparations: phalanxes of spearmen being organised, archers waiting at arrow carts, war bows being strung, daggers and maces distributed. The King and Beaufort had moved north and were now lodged at St Albans, a few miles away. Today, 22 May, the Year of Our Lord 1455, would not pass unnoticed. King Henry could talk peace to the last trumpet, but York intended to seize the moment and settle matters once and for all.
Sevigny doubted whether any battle orders had been distributed to the royal levies. He recalled riding through St Albans over a year ago, its narrow streets leading on to the main thoroughfare of St Peter’s Lane. Those streets could be infiltrated by men-at-arms supported by archers. He thought of LeCorbeil creeping forward, arbalests primed, intent on one target and one alone: the total destruction of the Beaufort lords and their allies. He stared up at a stone carving of a crowned angel and suppressed a shiver. Was it just the Beaufort lords York wanted to destroy? What if the King was slain, even his lady wife? Their son was only a child, and York would not tolerate the prince living any longer than his parents. Others were also in St Albans, unaware of the trap closing around them, including Simon Roseblood and his Queenhithe company.
‘Amadeus,’ York’s voice rang out, ‘your last task.’
Sevigny joined the duke near the baptismal font. York clutched his arm as a sign of farewell, then strode forward and opened the great door of the church, going out on to the wide, sweeping steps to receive the acclamation of his massed troops. For a short while Sevigny was blinded by the rising sun, dazzled by shimmering steel and the myriad colours of heraldic devices that seemed to fill the church’s great cemetery. He glimpsed the blue and murrey of York hoisted above the raven’s sable, the ragged staffs and muzzled bears, the blue, yellow, scarlet, green and gold of fluttering pennants and standards. The hoarse voices of the thronging soldiery chanted greetings. Over all swept the smoke and stench of war. Destriers eager for the charge pawed the ground, metal shoes drawing sparks. Archers were stringing their bows, their boys mixing pots of fiery charcoal; nearby, war carts laden with barrels of pitch stood at the ready. Sevigny glanced at these and recalled the thatched roofs and wood and plaster walls of those houses in St Albans, where men might hide only to be burnt out.
He followed the duke to the edge of the steps and glanced to his right, where York’s waiting lords, already dressed in half-armour, grouped around the mastiff-faced Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, a man by his own public admission born to war and keen for the kill. For a while York just stood revelling in his power before raising his arms in salute, to be greeted by fresh roars of approval and the ominous clatter of swords against shields. This was a war host intent on battle, whatever courtly formalities might take place.
York moved across to whisper to Warwick. Sevigny swiftly surveyed the massed ranks and found what he was searching for: the dark blood-red livery with its black crow wings spread. LeCorbeil! They stood, about sixty in number, under the standard of a crow in full flight. They did not join in the general acclamation, but just watched silently, at their feet the arbalests with which they were so skilled. Sevigny used the excitement of the acclamation to study LeCorbeil more closely. He searched out their leader, Bertrand, a cloak half hiding his mailed shirt, standing slightly forward. ‘A veritable hawk of a man,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Like me, a killer to the bone.’ His hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. If battle came and God was good, he would seek out Bertrand and kill him.
York continued to revel in the salutation, until Warwick sidled up, whispering in his ear and pointing across the great cemetery. Sevigny followed his direction and glimpsed the Franciscans in their earth-coloured robes assembled under the massive lychgate. York signalled to his heralds, and the trumpeters blew shrill blasts, stilling the clamour. Once silence had fallen, the words of the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ wafted clear and strong as the Franciscans, led by Brother Gabriel carrying a cross, moved up the paved cemetery path to kneel on the bottom step to the church: Prior Aelred, Wilfred, Gabriel and, beside him, Raphael Roseblood, also garbed like a Franciscan in a simple brown robe. Raphael, still chanting the verses, glanced quickly at Sevigny, who just stared back.
Once the hymn was finished, Prior Aelred lifted his hands and in a clear, resounding voice declared the King’s peace before moving on to the real content of his visit. York must disband his forces and withdraw to his post of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; only then would the Council meet to discuss the resolution of his grievances. The prior laced his talk with allusions to Scripture and the classics. Finally he begged York to stay within the King’s peace and enjoy his love. Then he fell silent.
York was brutal in his reply. Sevigny clearly saw the shock in the poor Franciscan’s face.
‘Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset,’ bellowed Warwick on behalf of his master, ‘must, for the sake of peace and the common good, surrender himself to His Grace the Duke of York, without any qualification or quibbling, for judgement.’
‘But my lord…’ Aelred, still kneeling on the bottom step, clasped his hands in prayer. ‘That will not happen.’
‘Then we must,’ Warwick shouted back, ‘seize Beaufort as the traitor and felon he is and prepare him for judgement.’
‘But the King—’
‘The King is ill advised.’ Warwick’s powerful voice carried for all to hear. ‘Beaufort must surrender himself within an hour of your return. Once Beaufort is removed, His Grace the King will be able to receive good counsel and guidance for the safety of his realm.’
‘Go back to His Grace,’ York called out. He gestured at Sevigny. ‘My household clerk will accompany you and ensure your safety. Tell the King my terms.’
‘Or else what?’ Gabriel, kneeling beside his prior, spoke up.
‘Or face war with fire and sword,’ Warwick retorted.
‘We are finished,’ York declared, and spinning on his heel, he walked back into the church followed by Warwick and other of his captains.
Sevigny recalled Ravenspur’s words. York would unleash his war dog Warwick. He hurried down the steps and, gesturing with his arms, swept the hapless Franciscans back along the path to the lychgate. Once there, he clasped their hands, teasing Gabriel that he recognised him immediately as his father’s son. Then he indicated with his head.
‘York’s soldiers will not harm you, but LeCorbeil are here. The King, and more importantly, your father, must be warned.’
‘It is war!’ Prior Aelred wailed. ‘Our words meant nothing.’
‘Good Father,’ Amadeus retorted, ‘not even an angel from heaven could change York’s heart. Warwick is his war master; his host is well armed and prepared. As God is my witness, they hope to be in St Albans before the Angelus bell sounds. So hurry, we must go.’
He coaxed and bullied the Franciscans on to their sorry mounts, then harnessed Leonardo, collected his bulging pannier and checked his armour and harness on the sturdy sumpter pony. Nobody troubled them, though he glimpsed two of LeCorbeil watching intently. He ignored these, keeping up his haste. A short while later, he led the Franciscans and Raphael out of Key Field. Once they were in the countryside, he turned his destrier, going back to console Prior Aelred, who was almost in tears at his failure.
‘Father,’ he pleaded, ‘you have done what you could. Remember the psalms: “Put not your trust in princes.” York wants war sooner than you think; within the hour his troops will be on the move.’
He dug in his spurs and forced his escort to do likewise, galloping along the lanes and into the cobbled streets of St Albans. His heart sank at what he saw there. The blue and white standards of the royal household were everywhere, as well as the banners of the various Lancastrian lords. Troops were bivouacked in the town but were totally unprepared for any attack. Streets and lanes were open; no carts or chains had been pulled across. Scouts and messengers galloped furiously south to where, Sevigny supposed, more royal forces were mustering, yet there were no defences to the north or east.
‘In God’s name!’ he whispered. ‘York could stroll in here and take what he wanted.’
A royal messenger gave him directions, and Sevigny led Prior Aelred’s party up Cock Lane into the broad expanse of St Peter’s Street. Only here had the danger been sensed. The busy main thoroughfare of the town was empty of its usual market stalls. Soldiers thronged about, but there seemed to be little preparation for an imminent attack. Sevigny and his party dismounted in the great tavern yard of the Castle Inn. Prior Aelred had urgent words with the knight bannerets of the royal chamber, and they were allowed into the spacious, sweet-smelling taproom.
The light was dim, the windows still shuttered, but the taverner had lit candles and lantern horns. A group of men and a woman, heavily swathed, sat around the great common table. A voice told the prior’s party to approach. They stepped into a pool of light and genuflected. Sevigny recognised the warrior-faced Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, sitting at the centre of the table; on his right was the beautiful Margaret of Anjou, her halo of golden hair and lovely face shrouded in a dark blue ermine-lined hood. The rest of the men, like Beaufort, were in half-armour. They looked ill at ease, fingers dropping to the daggers on their belts or tapping at the platters and goblets on the table.
A member of the royal bodyguard standing in the shadows brought them tub stools to sit on. Beaufort pointed a finger at Sevigny.
‘I recognise that face.’
‘Amadeus Sevigny,’ the clerk replied. ‘Formerly of the secret chancery of His Grace the Duke of York.’ His declaration provoked gasps and a few curses. ‘I have left York’s service.’
Beaufort nodded, eyes never leaving Sevigny.
‘I can vouch for him.’ A shadowy figure further down the table leaned forward. Sevigny recognised Simon Roseblood.
‘As can I.’ Reginald Bray stepped out of the shadows of a window seat behind the table.
‘Then so do I,’ Beaufort declared. ‘Prior Aelred, what news do you bring?’
‘War.’ Sevigny spoke up. ‘Battle within the hour. York is already marching on St Albans.’
‘Impossible!’ someone shouted. ‘Our scouts—’
‘My lord,’ Sevigny insisted, ‘I know York, or rather his master of war, Warwick. They assemble fully armed and will strike. They will not deploy, send heralds—’
Sevigny was interrupted by a scurrier, dusty face all sweat-strewn. He burst into the taproom and fell to his knees, pointing at the door and gabbling how the lookouts on the tower of St Peter’s, where the King was attending the Jesus mass, had glimpsed the sheen of a moving body of armed men. The messenger paused to take a breath, and in answer to Sevigny’s question confirmed that this was directly to the east of the town, adding that they were moving extremely swiftly.
Uproar ensued. The Lancastrian lords shouted for their retainers. Beaufort ordered the Queen to be escorted to the nearby abbey and dispatched household knights to St Peter’s to seize the King.
‘Drag him out if necessary,’ he yelled, ‘and bring him here. Master Simon!’ He beckoned Roseblood out of the corner. ‘See what you can discover and keep us informed.’ As he spoke, he lifted his hands as a sign that his squires help him prepare for battle. ‘Collect your company, small as it is,’ he added wryly. ‘Go to St Peter’s, set up watch at the tower, send scurriers.’ He flailed a hand in dismissal.
The taproom now became frenetically busy with knights and squires arming. Outside rose the clatter of steel, shouted orders and the neigh and clop of warhorses. Sevigny greeted Simon and clasped his hand. The taverner was already armed for war in a brigandine, a sallet in his hand, a war belt looped over his shoulder.
‘Welcome, clerk.’ Simon then embraced Gabriel and Raphael, warmly greeting Prior Aelred and Brother Wilfred. ‘You had best stay with us,’ he advised them. ‘This is truly a day of wrath. Many good men are going to die.’
‘You have the Roseblood company here?’ Raphael asked.
‘Some,’ his father replied evasively. ‘But come.’
They left for the chaotic stableyard, where Sevigny collected Leonardo and his sumpter pony. Wilfred tried to soothe the agitated Aelred, whilst Gabriel fetched their mounts. Simon hurried away, then returned saying that his company was now outside. When they left to join them, Gabriel exclaimed at the small number: no more than twenty mounted archers wearing the livery of the vintners’ company.
‘Why so few?’ Sevigny turned on Simon. ‘For God’s sake, man!’
‘This battle,’ Simon replied, ‘was lost before it was ever fought. I realised that when we met the King at the Tower. I am more concerned about the second battle.’
‘Which is?’
‘LeCorbeil.’
Simon swung himself up into the saddle and led them off down St Peter’s Street. Many of the town’s citizens had fled. Soldiers were barricading the mouths of alleyways and streets. The royal standard had been set up on a war wagon being dragged into the centre of the marketplace. Beaufort’s commanders were hastily deploying their forces, a long line stretching from St Peter’s church in the north to the river Ver and the great abbey to the south, where many townspeople were now sheltering. Sevigny realised that the royalist forces were overextended; knowing York, he would seek a gap, a weakness, and dispatch a phalanx to smash their way through.