The moon vanished to the south, its brightness fading quickly. As the sky eased from starlight and blackness to the first shades of gray, Salisbury and Warwick climbed the stairs to the highest point to stare east. York and Edward of March were already there, talking in low voices as Neville father and son reached the top step.
“Come here and you will see them,” York said, beckoning.
Salisbury squinted into the gloom, spotting tiny points of light in the distance, shifting and darting back and forth.
“How many?” Salisbury asked, as much a question to the younger men with sharp eyes as York himself.
“However many you left alive at the heath—and the king’s forces,” York replied.
He had railed and shouted on the first evening, when he heard how many Salisbury had allowed to escape. His friend had endured the tirade, knowing it sprang from fear. It was true Salisbury might have tracked and butchered the Queen’s Gallants streaming away from him. He might equally have been overwhelmed by them as they regrouped and fought back. He had chosen instead to follow through with the original plan and reinforce Ludlow. There was no point in wishing for different choices to have been made.
Far away, the line of torches grew and grew, spreading across the horizon until the four men could only stare in grim silence. York knew the land to the east better than anyone and he was most affected, rubbing the back of his scalp and shaking his head.
“It might be a trick, still,” he said. “Men far spaced perhaps to carry the torches, making them seem a greater host than they truly are.”
He did not believe it and none of the others replied. The sun would reveal the extent of the king’s army facing Ludlow.
“Ludlow has never been breached,” York said after a time. “These walls will stand long after us all, no matter how many tanners and squires they have found to march against it this year.”
The sky behind the approaching army was brightening slowly, clear and pale. York stiffened as he began to make out the dark shapes of cannon being trundled along with the host. Once he knew to look for them, he peered further, leaning out over the stones until Salisbury wanted to take his arm before he fell. A dozen heavy serpentines had been dragged toward Ludlow, each one capable of smashing an iron ball through a full mile of clear air. Against castle walls, even those of Ludlow, they would wreak terrible destruction.
“They’ve come to break us,” Salisbury murmured.
He sensed York’s anger at his words, but the light before sunrise was strong enough for them all to see the extent of the king’s forces. They could barely make out the noble banners in the soft gray, but the numbers were appalling, at least twice the men they had gathered in the name of York.
“I see the Percy colors,” Edward said, pointing. “Lord Gray is there. Exeter. Buckingham. Somerset on the left, do you see? Is that the banner of the Cliffords?”
“It is,” York replied. “A great pack of curs and fatherless boys, it seems. I should have killed Buckingham at St. Albans, when he was laid out with his face split in two. Look for the king’s lion pennants. Or the queen’s swan. That wolf bitch will be among them, I am certain.”
At the distance of half a mile, the royal army halted, blowing horns to wake the dead, or at least any Yorkist soldiers who might somehow have slept through the clash and rumble of their approach. The ranks of torches were extinguished as full dawn came and York and Salisbury could only stare in dismay as dozens of armored knights rode up and down the first rank, carrying the streaming banners of all the houses they represented, led by three gold lions on red. It was a display meant to intimidate and shock—and it did its work well.
In the front rank, the cannon teams raised the immense black iron barrels and placed wooden blocks under them. York clenched his right hand as he saw braziers lit and men scurrying with bags of corned black powder. Right across the king’s army, thin streams of smoke rose into the clear air. The men on the battlements heard the order, a single voice that was answered with a crashing thunder and such an explosion of smoke that half the royal force vanished behind it.
No iron balls soared across the distance between them. The flame and smoke had been a warning and a demonstration of power. No one who saw it was left in any doubt that the next volley would tear men apart and hammer castle walls. Yet it did not come. Instead, a single herald rode forward beyond the rest, accompanied by six men. Two of them blew horns while the rest carried royal banners, the lions fluttering. They reached the edge of York’s forces and the herald declaimed at the top of his voice. Few of his words reached the battlements, though the four men above craned to hear. York watched sourly as the herald finished his speech and continued out of sight, heading into the castle. He would be allowed to enter, to deliver his message to the master of Ludlow.
York turned to the earls standing with him, his eyes resting at last on the son who towered above them all in his armor. Like the rest of them, York was pale, his confidence shattered. He knew the king’s herald would be brought up to him and he spoke quickly before they were no longer alone.
“I had not thought to see Henry himself come against me,” he said. “However they have done it, I do not know if the men will stand, not now.” The anguish felt by that small group on the battlements would be flooding through every soldier below. It was one thing to raise arms against another lord, especially those York accused of being traitors and manipulators of the king and queen. It was quite another to stand against the King of England himself in the field. They could all see the pavilion of flags and banners being raised in the center of the line.
“Half of them are farmers’ sons,” Edward said into the silence. “They can be routed, just as they ran at Blore Heath. Let Warwick and me take our two thousand against the flank. We’ll roll them up, while the rest assault the center. Our men are veterans, sir. They are worth two of those men or more, each one.” Even as he spoke, the Earl of March could sense the despair in Salisbury and his father. He looked to Warwick for support, but even he shook his head.
Salisbury glanced to the top of the steps, gauging whether he could yet be overheard.
“My father suffered many raids into his lands,” he said suddenly, “all led by the same Scots laird. Ralph Neville was a cautious man, but on one occasion he found himself outnumbered, caught in the open. He knew if he stood and fought, he would have lost it all.”
The three men with him were listening as Salisbury peered again at the steps.
“He sent his serving men forward, three big lads with two chests of silver, leaving them alone in a meadow while the clansmen crept up like the wolves they are. Perhaps it was their unexpected good fortune that made them wary, or simply because they had already learned the earl was a cunning enemy. The laird’s men expected a trap and by the time they realized there was none, my father had retreated to a stronghold and was out of their reach.”
“What of the silver and his men?” Edward asked.
Salisbury shrugged.
“They were all taken. The men were killed and the silver spirited away to the laird’s longhouse. They drank themselves to a stupor at the wealth they had won and they were still asleep when my father’s men fell on them from the darkness. He had brought more than enough for the work and they’d followed the tracks of clansmen carrying the heavy chests, right through field and forest. My father’s men killed the laird in his home and slaughtered his bondsmen before they could rise and defend themselves. In the morning, they took back their chests and returned across the border. It was a memory my father cherished in his final years. It kept him warm in the cold, he said, to remember their surprise.”
A clatter of footsteps made Salisbury raise a hand in warning to them all, snapping his mouth shut on whatever else he might have added. The king’s herald was dressed in pink and blue, a jay among crows on that roof. He was panting and he bowed elaborately, acknowledging the three earls
and York last of all.
“My lords, I speak for his Royal Majesty, King Henry of England, Ireland, and France, Protector and Defender of the Realm, Duke of Lancaster and Cornwall, God’s blessing on his name.” The herald paused, swallowing uncomfortably under the cold gazes of the men he addressed. “My lords, I am to say that the king will pardon all those who have taken up arms against him. He will show mercy to any man who accepts his pardon without delay.” He had to summon his nerve to go on, a sheen of sweat appearing along his brow. “Excepting only the Duke of York, the Earl of Salisbury, and the Earl of Warwick. Those men are declared traitors and must be handed over to the royal forces and the king’s own authorities.”
“What of the Earl of March?” Edward demanded, honestly affronted that he had not been mentioned.
The herald looked nervously at the enormous man, shaking his head.
“I was not told to say that name, my lord. I . . . cannot . . .”
“Go, sir,” York said suddenly. “I will send my answer at noon, with my own man. Will you return to the king’s side?”
“Yes, my lord. His Highness awaits what answer you would have him hear.”
“King Henry stands then, in the host? He is present on the field?”
“I saw him with these eyes, my lord. I swear it. I will await your answer, if you wish.”
“No,” York replied, dismissing him with a sharp gesture. “Return to your master.”
The herald bowed again and vanished, escorted down through the castle by York’s staff.
Salisbury could see York readying himself to snap furious orders. As the herald left, he spoke quickly.
“My father’s tale is the key to this lock. We cannot stand today. We do not have the men or the walls to resist such an army.”
“You’d have me run?” York demanded, rounding on his oldest friend.
“Has the king not offered a pardon?” Salisbury replied instantly. The herald had aided him, unknowing. Yet Salisbury still had to find words that would placate York’s prickly honor. “Tell your captains to wait for your return. Tell them the king is just a puppet of the Percys, or a pawn of his French queen.” He held up his hand and spoke more loudly as York began to argue. “Tell them you will come back in the spring and that a leader chooses the place he will stand—and does not let his enemies choose it for him! God knows, the king is not popular. He has hardly left Kenilworth in—how long now? No parliaments called for three years, no order in the land. There is little love for him—more for you. Let your men and mine have their pardons, Richard! Let them return to their homes, knowing that this is just a breath between blows, before we break this royal rabble into pieces, lord by lord, man by man!”
York stared, his mouth slightly open. He looked as if he wrestled with betrayal, and Salisbury’s son added his voice to the argument.
“We cannot win here,” Warwick said softly. “You know that is the truth. We could die here, in all certainty, but I would rather we give them their small triumph—and then come back and fall on them when they are drowsing and drunk on their success. The final victory is what matters, my lord York, not how it comes about.”
The anger seeped out of York and he let his head droop, leaning back on the stone battlements. Ignoring Warwick, his eyes beseeched Salisbury.
“You think we can return, after such a loss?” he said, his voice hoarse with pain.
“They have surprised us here. We will surprise them in turn. There is no dishonor in such a course, Richard. If there were, I would blow the horns with you and settle it today, one way or the other. Would you have me throw my life away in this place?” Salisbury raised his chin. “If you give the order, we will fight to the last man. We will strike hard at the king’s—”
The tramp and jingle of men in mail interrupted him and all four looked over the battlements to the gathered armies far below. Warwick exclaimed as he saw the colors of the marching soldiers.
“What are they doing?” he said in shock. “That is Captain Trollope leading my men away! What is he . . . ?”
He fell silent as the ranks of six hundred Calais veterans raised a white banner and approached the king’s forces. They were met with a hostile bristling of pikes as well as knights and lords riding out to meet them. As Warwick watched in disgust, the ranks parted to allow the marching column to pass through.
“God’s wounds, that’s the end of it,” Salisbury said. “We needed those men.” He turned to York. “It is no small thing to stand against the king, my friend. If you’ll depart this place, we can prepare our captains for our return. I will not be idle, I swear it. I’ll send each one a letter swearing my loyalty to the king and asking only that he defends Henry from evil men.”
“I cannot walk away!” York shouted, silencing him. “Do you not understand? If we leave tonight, we will be attainted, every one of us! York and Salisbury, gone! Warwick, gone! March, gone! My life’s work, my house, my name, blackened by their writs, destroyed and broken! Damn you. Damn King Henry and his French bitch. I would rather die here, with these walls at my back.”
“I would rather live,” Warwick said, speaking firmly across York’s grief. “I would live so that I can overturn any law they make. I would live so that I can hold Parliament in my hand and make them tear up these Writs of Attainder. And I would live so that I can take my vengeance against my enemies, with men who understand that York too is a royal line. That is what I would do, my lord. Yet my father spoke the truth. If you wish, I will stand with you as the soldiers despoil your home and those you love. I will remain at your side as they are let loose to rape and torture, to burn and shatter everything you hold dear. That is my oath and the strength of my word. My fate lies with you.”
York looked around at the three men waiting on his decision. He was trapped, caught between two paths, each so appalling that he could only stare and shake. After a long time, he nodded.
“I have friends in Ireland, still. Men who care nothing for Attainder and who would protect me in my estates. Will you come with me?”
“Not I,” Salisbury said. “Calais will keep me out of the clutches of the king’s officers, but it is close to Kent. Close enough to leap over on a dark night next year.”
“Warwick?” York asked.
“Calais,” Warwick said firmly.
“Edward?” York said, turning and looking up at his son, standing there like a tree above them all. The young man squirmed, caught between conflicting loyalties.
“If you will allow it, father, I would rather return to France. There’s nowhere better placed to gather an army and cross back.”
If his son’s choice was another blow, York did not show any sign of it. He nodded, clapping Edward on the shoulder.
“There is a path and a bridge across to meadows, to the west of Ludlow. It’s a quiet route and it will take us far away. I must speak to my wife before I leave, as well as my captains. They must be told what to expect. What say you to April, six months from now, for our return?”
“Give me nine months, my lord,” Warwick replied. “Nine months and I will gather enough men to win back everything we have lost.”
York nodded, feigning confidence against a chilling desolation that numbed his limbs.
“Very well. I will expect to hear you have landed on the first day of July, on your souls, all of you. Give me your oaths that you will set foot on English soil in July next year, or be ever known as faithless men, oathbreakers. With God’s blessing, we will pay them in full for this disgrace.”
All three earls gave a private vow, gripping Richard of York by the arm and kneeling on the battlements. In somber mood, they left the heights then, to arrange for their escape.
—
AS EVENING CAME, torches were lit across Ludlow Castle and all through the village of Ludford to the south. The great gates of the fortress were thrown open and the first ranks of armo
red knights rode in, carrying the banners of the noble houses they represented. Duchess Cecily of York stood to meet them in the open courtyard beyond the gates, stiff and still as armed horsemen swept by her, seeking out some sign of her husband, or the first breath of a trap. They tramped and rushed all over the castle, kicking in doors and reducing the servants to terror as they quivered with their heads down, expecting a blade to land at any moment.
Two hours passed before Queen Margaret entered Ludlow, riding ahead of a hundred of her Gallants. She sat side-saddle on her horse and it was Thomas, Lord Egremont, who helped her to dismount. Her face was icy with disdain as she reached York’s wife and regarded the older woman with cold fascination.
“Your brave husband has run, then,” Margaret said. “A coward at the last.”
“And yours is nowhere to be seen. Is he sleeping, or at prayer?” Cecily replied sweetly. Margaret’s eyes narrowed as Cecily went on. “You have won tonight, my dear, but my husband will claim what he is owed. You must never doubt that.”
“He will not have this place,” Margaret said, gesturing to the stone walls all around and smiling at the older woman who had once intimidated her. “Ludlow will be sold now York is made common, with every other stone and scrap of land he once owned. Where will you rest your head then, Cecily? With no servants to tend you, or any name beyond wife to a traitor? I have seen the writs, with my husband’s Seal proudly on them. You will not find shelter with Salisbury, or with Warwick after this month. They are all subject to Attainder and that foul trinity is cracked apart.”