Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) (11 page)

Somerset coloured, aware of her touch as she pulled her hand away, leaving a sense of fading heat on his skin.

The gates of London stood open for the army that had approached under the banners of York. Edward and Warwick rode together at the head of a column and as they passed through Moorgate, there was no fear evident in the people gathering to see them. It was true the capital city came to a halt as the news spread right across it, even to the rookeries. Men and women put down their tools or stood from table, taking up shawls and cloaks against a cold that seemed to be growing more bitter with every passing day.

The sky was a dark blue, clear and frozen above the city. There was said to be ice on the Thames as Edward and Warwick rode through packed streets, trotting their mounts in a clanking line with banners before and behind. Both of the young men were in full armour for such a formal entrance, carrying the crests of their houses on their shields so that everyone who saw them would know who passed. Warwick’s men had done their best with grease and paint, but after months of wear, the metal parts were scuffed and cracked, while the leather inserts had grown hard and moulded themselves to the forms they held.

Warwick’s men dipped his banner as they rode past the aldermen of the city, resplendent in robes of blue and scarlet. With the mayor, they had all come out of their Guildhall to acknowledge the army entering London. Those men were flushed as if they had been running, but they bowed deeply to the bear-and-staff of Warwick, with the white rose of York held high above them all.

Warwick smiled and shook his head as he looked over the small group. They had refused entry to the house of Lancaster, to the king and queen of England. They had made their choice then and there was no going back after
it. It was no surprise that they would interrupt the breaking of their fast to come out and bless Edward Plantagenet. They had entwined their fates and their lives with the house of York.

Warwick looked back over his shoulder as he passed. The mayor really was a great hog of a man, with big pink hands and features hidden in bulging rolls of fat. Warwick felt irritation simmer that such a one should eat so very well while soldiers stayed thin. He grunted to himself, knowing that the two things did not coincide. Unless he fed the mayor to his army, of course. In that way, the fellow’s excesses would all be paid back. The thought was strangely cheering.

The roads around their path towards the river were filling, bringing back memories of Jack Cade’s invasion of the city. Warwick had seen mobs then, as well as horrors unspeakable. He shuddered and told himself it was the cold. He only hoped he had persuaded Edward on to the right path. The young Duke of York had been intent on making a second attack on the queen’s army. They’d gone south with that in mind, but other news had come back along the road. The king and queen had been turned away from their own walls, denied entrance to the capital city of England. It changed everything, and Warwick and York had talked long into the night.

Warwick prayed he had made the right choice. The queen’s army would have had their confidence knocked, the rightness of their cause brought into question. It all added up to a chance to drive a sword into the flank of Lancaster at last.

Yet instead of chasing hard upon their heels, Warwick had argued that he and Edward should enter the very city
that had refused King Henry. The young duke had been furious at first, bellowing his disagreement, caring nothing that all their men could hear. In a great storm of temper, he recalled Warwick holding him back once before, when King Henry had been at their mercy. Edward referred to that battle by Northampton again and again, his pain and grief writ clear on his face. Yet he was not a child. Though the eighteen-year-old made his Herculean effort at control all too visible, he had listened. He’d allowed Warwick to talk, to explain what London could do for them.

When Edward had understood and accepted Warwick’s quiet argument, he’d leaped from surly refusals to becoming enthusiastic and full of wild laughter, as if the idea had been his own. Warwick was left wiping sweat from his brow after the blasts and storms he’d endured. It had not augured well for the future between them. Edward had allowed himself to be persuaded, it was true, but there was no question of his being
made
to do anything. He had agreed and so they would follow one path and not another.

With some misgivings, Warwick had recalled that Edward had shown respect only to his father. Now that Richard of York was gone, who else was there who could hold the son in check? After suffering hours of rage and rudeness just to convince Edward of his own best interests, it was not a prospect Warwick relished, if the task ever fell to him.

As big as London was, there had not been any question of bringing their entire army inside the walls. Eight or nine thousand of them were still a mile away from the city, on dry ground. They waited for the three thousand accompanying Warwick and York to settle in and bring out stores and food. The usual number of captains had mysteriously
doubled for the ranks entering the city, so that some eighty veteran officers were there to oversee the men. Under their command, soldiers spread out along the streets, keeping the populace quiet as the tramp of marching feet passed every house and stopped at every shop or tavern. Ale was one thing they could not often get on the march. Some of the men had not drunk a drop of anything but water for months. The captains licked cracked lips and thirsted for it. On York’s orders, they had been given their pay, so that many of them had fat purses to empty. Between them, they would drink the city dry by the morning. It would be a wild and drunken rabble by dawn, but they had been stern and sombre for an age, always in fear of an attack. It would not hurt for them to drown their cares for a night.

Only a hundred or so accompanied Richard of Warwick and Edward of York right across the city. Warwick did not know if those men were honoured at the role they had been given, or just sour at the loss of a night’s debauchery. They rode with heads high, heading always south to the river and the great house of York in London that was known as Baynard’s Castle. Built of red brick, it stood tall and square against the river, sheathed in ivy that reached to the top of the towers there. The news had gone ahead of them and the gates stood open for the mounted troop. Edward saw the courtyard and dug in his heels, wrenching them all with him so that they rode in at a perilous speed, the horses skidding on the slick stones.

They came to a halt, panting and smiling at the exertion. Warwick watched the younger man, still unsure. The bets were all made, he knew. They could not be called back. Every hour they spent in London was one more for the queen to plan or gather soldiers, or simply march further
away. Yet they dismounted in a York stronghold, with the River Thames passing by the walls. It was strange to be safe in such a place, in a city that had refused Lancaster. Warwick felt some of his muscles unclench as Edward called for wine and ale and a good fire. They had spread three thousand men through the city, billeting them in every inn and major household. Those who had come with Warwick and Edward included the Duke of Norfolk and his most experienced advisers, as well as Bishop George Neville and his coterie of servants. For just one night, all the senior men were under one roof. Warwick crossed himself at the thought of what would come before they saw the sun rise again.

‘I am the heir to the throne,’ Edward said, addressing them all. ‘By act of this London Parliament, my father was made heir to King Henry, not a year past.’ A slight tremble and tightness in his voice betrayed his nervousness as he cleared his throat and went on. ‘I am the first son of York. That honour falls to me.’

The hall was packed and not just with those Warwick and Edward had brought into the city. As the night deepened, Warwick had noted senior gentlemen sidling in from the cold to hear Edward speak. The large head of the mayor could be seen over to one side, with three of his aldermen. Members of Parliament too had come, to judge and report back to their fellows. Perhaps even more importantly, Warwick recognized the heads of two merchant guilds and the master of Holy Trinity Priory. Those men could provide vital loans, if they liked what they heard.

Beyond Edward’s voice, the only sound came from the fire. The great hall of Baynard’s Castle could well have been the warmest spot in London that night. Scores of small logs were still being fed to the flames, tipped in by red-faced servants who then hurried away for another armful. Kitchen boys added lumps of coal from iron scuttles. The flames grew with a crackle of sap, an exhalation of heat that loosened men’s jackets and made them wipe perspiration from their faces. It was not too much to bear,
not after months of winter and numb feet. For all its fierceness, the fire was a welcome blessing and the men clustered around it, leaving only a few away from the light and the warmth.

Warwick remained outside the shifting core by the fireplace, saying nothing. It was no small thing to have the massive wealth and authority of London stand with them. The men of power in the city had little choice but to support York after refusing the king and queen. There was no third party, no middle ground. He pursed his mouth, feeling his lips thin and his jaw clench. It was true Henry of Lancaster and a dozen powerful lords still stood in the path of that ambition. The reality of that seemed not to trouble Edward. The young man had not hidden his intentions, nor tried to be subtle. It was Edward’s desire to meet Lancaster on the field and settle it there, once and for all.

The son of York leaned against a massive buttress of brick, part of the chimney stretching into eaves overhead. The fire huffed and breathed behind him, so that he was shadowed and lit gold, catching glints of light as he turned. Warwick observed the men as closely as he watched the young duke, seeing how they stood, how they reacted. Blood had power. The house of York was a direct male line from kings. That simple fact gave Edward authority over all those who allowed it. Men like the block of bone that was Norfolk, over twice York’s age and experience, yet still standing with his head slightly bowed, looking up from under his brows. That was to the good. They needed the man’s soldiers and his strength of arms.

It did not hurt the cause that Edward was such a massive figure. It was not just the height; though Warwick had known only two men as tall in his lifetime. Both had been
lopsided and odd-looking, twisted imitations of a warrior. In comparison, Edward had a thickness of limb and a sheer breadth of shoulder that made him a force in any room. In armour, he would be a terrifying figure. Warwick shuddered at the thought. Alongside his training and massive strength was Edward’s youth, with all its speed and limitless stamina. It would be like facing an armoured bull. If Edward had been born to a smith, say, or a guild mason, his size might have made him a knight or more likely a captain of great fame. With his blood and his name, there was no limit to what he could become.

‘I watched my father struggle with terrible forces,’ Edward went on, his voice ringing. ‘I saw him wrestle with the respect he felt for the king of England – and the
despair
he felt at the man who
was
king. On the one hand, my father gave honour and bent his knee to the throne. As he should have done! As he was was bound by oath to do!’

A murmur of agreement went through the men, tinged with nervousness. Edward swept his gaze over them all, resting at last on Warwick and nodding to him.

‘On the other hand, he found a beardless innocent sitting on that throne, dishonouring England by his unworthy rule. Losing France. Splintering the noble houses. Seeing London raided by mobs and the Tower breached. Allowing discord and armed forces to roam the country without check. In his weakness, King Henry brought England and Wales to the brink of lawless chaos. I do not believe there has ever been a head so unworthy to wear that crown.’

Edward paused to sip at a cup of mulled wine, allowing those in the crowd to take quick, shallow breaths. There was no doubt now that they were listening to treason. The knowledge shook them all.

Warwick recalled a time the young man would have knocked back a dozen big mugs of ale and still called for more. With the roaring fire warming one side of him and the other cold and dark, Edward gulped once and placed the goblet on the bricks to warm. He did not seem nervous then, at least to Warwick’s eye. The young duke standing with a furnace at his back spoke to those men as if he planned a day’s hunting. They waited for him, held in stillness by the silence and the importance of the words being spoken.

‘The house of Lancaster stood above the house of York,’ Edward said. ‘By the distance of one son – John of Gaunt, that great counsellor, over Edmund of York, my ancestor. The house of Lancaster gave us two great kings and then a weak one, a strong line spoiled. How often have we seen a run of good wine followed by years of bad grapes? It happens with blood as well as wine – and that is why the men of Parliament saw fit to make my father heir to the throne. Like any careful gardener, they reached back to the good green branch, to the spot before the vine failed – and they cut away the poor growth.’

Some of those around Edward chuckled at that, others muttered ‘Yes’ into their beards or dipped their heads, or even knocked goblets against metal, so that odd clanks and bell tones sounded in the hall, rising to the rafters overhead.

‘I am of the same vine,’ Edward said.

Warwick was among those who cried ‘Yes!’ in response.

‘I am the Duke of York. I am the heir to the throne.’

‘Yes!’ they cried out again, laughing along.

‘I will be king,’ Edward said, his voice rising in volume and strength. ‘And I will be king
tonight
.’

The laughter and noise fell away as if a door had been closed. The crowd stood still, though some twitched as sweat made them itch or a shiver ran down their backs. Warwick had known what Edward would say, but he was one of very few who had. As a result, he was able to watch all the rest and see where there might be resistance. His eyes were on the most powerful, but as they swept across the gathering, he realized to his surprise that no one turned their head away from the giant standing by the great fire. They looked to Edward as if he were the source of the light.

The moment of stunned shock passed. They began to stamp and cheer, louder and louder as Edward pushed away from the wall and stood upright before them. With one sweep, he reached down and fetched his cup for a toast. Though Warwick saw that the heat stung his hand, Edward ignored the pain and drank deeply. The men around him did the same, calling for the servants to refill their goblets.

‘A cup or two, no more, my lords and gentlemen!’ Edward went on, laughing.

His beard had crisped brown from the heat of the cup at his lips. Over his smile, his eyes were strained. He searched the crowd for Warwick, waiting for him. They had agreed he would speak then, and yet Warwick rested a beat. He could feel the moment pressing on him, the sense that once he opened his mouth, the future would rush down upon them like a devouring flame. He filled his chest, the colder air shuddering in to cool his blood.

‘My lord York!’ Warwick called across them all. ‘If you would be king
tonight
, you’ll need a crown and an oath – and a bishop to represent the Holy Church. Would that we had such a man of God, my lord.’

At Warwick’s shoulder stood his brother in robes, hands clasped as if in prayer. Bishop George Neville knew what was expected of him and he raised his head and spoke up immediately, exactly as they had practised. In that huge space, with the fire crackling, his voice rang out with more force than they had known he possessed.

‘My lord York, yours is a royal line. By law, you are the heir to the throne; no man can deny that. Yet there is a man who sits in that throne. What say you, my lord?’

More than a hundred heads turned back, delighted at the question and the tension of it. They turned to see if Edward would be undone, as if they witnessed the climax of a mummers’ play. Yet Edward was ready for it, standing tall and confident. He had asked the same, appalled question the night before. How could he be king when Henry lived? He was willing enough to face Henry on the field of battle, but he could hardly deny the man his own throne while Henry still sat on it.

‘For a time, there must be two kings of England,’ Warwick had said on the dark road. ‘As King Edward, you’ll be able to raise the men we need. Knights and lords will come flocking to a Plantagenet king – with their men-at-arms. No matter what else occurs, you must not leave London without a crown on your head. With it, you will truly come to rule. Without it, Edward, your ambition and your vengeance will be trampled with your banners. You must speak aloud and
make
it true. Or remain silent, for want of daring.’

‘I have no such want,’ Edward had said. ‘I would dare anything. Find me a crown. Let your brother touch it to my head. I will wear it. I will show you how it should be worn!’

In the great hall of Baynard’s Castle in London, with the Thames rushing past outside, Edward spoke again, his voice cracking out with no softness in it.

‘It is my thought, Your Grace, that the throne of England lies empty, even with Henry of Lancaster in it.’ A chuckle ran around the hall. ‘I claim the throne, by law, by right of blood, by my sword and my right of vengeance against the house of Lancaster. I claim it tonight and I will be crowned tonight, in Westminster, as so many others before me. I will join a brotherhood of kings before dawn, gentlemen. Which of you will ride with me to that place and see me declare for the throne? I will not dawdle here in London. I have business to be about and it will be a rough-hewn ceremony. Which of you will be my witnesses? I will not ask again.’

Warwick crossed himself and saw that he was not the only one to do it. To a man, they skirted blasphemy and dishonour, but Edward
had
a claim, if they did not examine it to death in the details. He was the heir and he did have the support of an army outside the city. Warwick imagined William of Normandy had no better claim than that – and he had been crowned in Westminster Abbey on Christmas Day in the year of our Lord 1066. It had been done before. It could be done again. All laws could be remade on strength of arms, if the need was great enough.

The crowd of men felt the gale and they bent like long grass. If they knew indecision or distrust, or even fear at challenging a divinely chosen king, they did not show it. Instead, they waved their cups and then cast them amongst the flaming logs and coals. The goblets blackened, seams opening so that flames shone through.

Some of the men chanted prayers; some recited family
oaths of fealty, or remembrances of childhood honour. When Edward moved, they went with him.

The night was dark and frost lay white on every surface. They crashed out into the yard in life and noise, with Edward at the very heart. It did not last beyond a few wild shouts. The numbing cold they drew in helped to sober them as much as the empty streets. Servants scurried and brought horses, but the mood had dampened and the true scope of what they were about had come home. In the silence, more servants brought out the banners of York, great swathes of dark cloth marked with a white rose, others with a falcon and fetterlock. As they were flung open, the banners crackled and blew dust under the moon, like a trail of light. Edward looked back at dozens of them, hanging pale. They were the symbols of his noble house and he bowed his head, whispering a prayer for the soul of his father before he raised his voice once more.

‘Some of you were with me in Wales,’ Edward said. ‘Before the battle of Mortimer’s Cross, we saw the sun rise in three places, casting such strange shadows as I have never seen. Three suns, shining on the house of York. I will bless the white rose until my dying day, but I will have a sun on my own shield. It warms those it loves, but it burns as well. Life and destruction, whichever I choose.’

Edward smiled then, enjoying the authority, though Warwick swallowed at the depth of anger glittering in the younger man.

There could not
be
two kings of England. If they made another in Westminster Hall that night, it would mean war, without pause or rest, until there was just one king once more. Like raging bees from different hives, the followers could not suffer each other to live. That was their course,
their compass. That was the path he had proposed and York had chosen to follow. The banners of white roses and white falcons snapped and fluttered as the men rode out of Baynard’s Castle to the Palace of Westminster, looming against the river flowing dark.

Margaret watched indulgently from a corner of a fine, warm room, enjoying the scent of polished wood and dried flowers. Her lords stood and talked in murmuring voices, abashed in the presence of King Henry. It was pitiable how they still looked to him, she thought, expecting some glance or spark of life, when all he could do was nod and smile and demonstrate the emptiness that had brought them to the edge of ruin. She could not remember the last time she had felt any compassion for him. His weakness endangered their son, Prince Edward. For that sweet boy, her heart could break with just a glance – and in that soaring dedication, she would feel again the thorns that were Henry’s blank eyes and foolish smile.

If he had been a carpenter who’d lost his wits, perhaps it would not have mattered. When his lack of will endangered his son and wife and all the good men and women who had devoted themselves to his cause, it was a source of bitter anger whenever she dwelled on it.