“Thank you, Master Wainwright,” he said. “And I’ll remember what you told me.”
“You do that, my lord. Kent will rise for a good cause. For a bad one too, mebbe, but a good one’s better.”
It took only a short time to truss the six watchmen. With apologies, Warwick had two of his soldiers add a set of bruises to the faces of a couple of them, though he spared Wainwright that. It was only an hour or so to dawn and he knew the watchmen would be found at first light, with a bloody nose or two for show.
Warwick sent his father and March to different ships, each taking command of a small crew. He waited to the very last before leaping onto the final vessel and taking position at the tiller to steer her out. The tide was turning and it took only half a dozen men to raise the single sail and catch the morning breeze. They left a long and empty length of dock behind them, and Warwick looked back and laughed as he went.
The waves were less calm beyond the shelter of the port. The men from Calais were spread too thinly among the ships they’d captured, so they used the smaller boats to take ropes between them. One well-manned ship could tow another easily enough, with the sun rising and France clearly visible across the Channel.
With the sails up and billowing in the wind, Warwick felt the desire to sing a sea shanty he recalled from his youth. His voice rang out across the waves and those who heard and knew it sang with him, grinning as they worked the sails and tillers, guiding their prizes back to Calais.
CHAPTER 24
Spring came to the French coast, bringing gentle breezes and blue skies filled with wheeling cormorants and gulls. The stolen fleet had proved vital for sailing up the coast of England to collect soldiers and lords loyal to the Yorkist cause. By June, the Calais fortress was heaving with English soldiers, packed into every spare space and stable. Two thousand of them would cross and invade, leaving eight hundred behind. As the last piece of English land in France, neither Salisbury nor Warwick wanted to be the ones who lost the fortress in their absence. The Calais walls had to be well manned, no matter what else was at stake.
Warwick had not been idle in the months since his jaunt across to Kent. The watchman’s words had interested him and there was rarely a night that went by without some small cog slipping over on the dark waters, filled with the best speakers he could find. As the spring passed, Warwick’s men were to be found in every Kent town and village, calling out for those who wished to avenge Jack Cade and repay the savagery of Ludford. Ten years before, Cade had entered London with some fifteen thousand men. Though some of them had been from Essex and other parts, the king and his officers were no more popular in Kent than they had been a decade earlier. A new generation of boys had grown up under the yoke of cruel punishments and brutal taxation. After the dark news of Attainder carried out on York, Salisbury, and Warwick, every report Warwick received went some way to revive his spirits.
By the end of June, they were ready. Only bad weather kept them in port then, the sea too rough to risk a crossing. Mindful of his oath to York, Warwick fretted for every lost day, but the gales had to blow themselves out. His fleet of forty-eight small ships could carry all two thousand across in one great surge, with half the Calais garrison suborned to bring the ships back to France. After the desertion of Captain Trollope to the king’s side, those men could not do enough to aid the earls.
As they trooped into boats and rowed out to the ships, it intrigued Warwick to think of men like Caesar, who had been forced to build a fleet to take his legions across to Kent, fifteen hundred years before. The target was the same: London. As well as a royal garrison they dared not leave at their backs, London meant Parliament and the only group with the power to reverse the writs of Attainder. London was the key to England’s lock, as it had always been.
The wind was blowing hard toward the English coast as the fleet launched. Gray clouds were low overhead and a constant drizzle chilled the men packed into the ships. Yet it was only a single leap and they could see the landing spot after just an hour or so at sea. One by one, the ships came in under as much sail as they dared raise. The captains could not beach the vessels for fear of staving them in. It took time to land men by boats and, all the while, the local militia could be seen rushing along the quays and docks, gathering men to repel the invasion. There were too few to hold back so many boatloads of men landing at once. A brief struggle developed before the militia gave up, leaving bodies on the quayside and more men haring away.
Warwick landed a little further along the coast, establishing a defensible position on a long shingle beach and putting archers out. Unchallenged, he and his men marched back to the port of Sandwich and filled it, watching as ships turned and raised sail, tacking into a rough sea and rising wind. Even then, there were hundreds of small boats still being rowed to shore, in such numbers that they bobbed together like driftwood. Some were unlucky, the fragile craft turning over as they caught a wave. Men who went into the surf in mail shirts were not seen again.
Close by the spot where Warwick had touched the land of his birth, two of the merchant cogs were driven right up on the shingle. As the ships leaned and settled, their captains ran plank bridges out from the lowest point of the deck so that they could walk a dozen blindfolded warhorses to the ground. Those ships would rot where they lay, but men like Salisbury were too old to march the sixty miles to London.
The sun was setting by the time the last of the fleet vanished into the mist and clouds on the Channel, leaving them alone. In a thin drizzle, the men settled down to fires on the beach and docks. They ate and drank and covered themselves as best they could, trying to snatch a few hours of sleep.
With the sun’s return, a column of men came marching through the town. Soldiers were leaping up all around Warwick, ready for an attack. Yet it was not the local militia returning to repel his men, or even some part of the king’s forces. Word had already spread of the landing and hundreds of Kentish men had come with their axes and pikes and cleavers. They halted by the docks and Warwick could only smile, accepting watchman Jim Wainwright into his service at fourpence a day. The earls’ army began to move west and those first few hundred became thousands, with every town they passed adding to their number.
On horseback, Warwick and his father acknowledged the cheering crowds in towns and villages, Kentish families greeting them as saviors rather than enemies of the Crown. It was dizzying, and Warwick could hardly believe the success of his recruiters. The men of Kent had risen once more and this time he was the spark. He could not help wonder how many of them knew he had fought against them on the last dark night they had entered the capital city.
The irony of it all was not lost on him. In the very steps of Jack Cade, he would have to gather them in Southwark and cross London Bridge, heading for the Tower and the only force able to stop his progress.
—
THEY REACHED the southern banks of the London river on the afternoon of the third day, after three hard marches. Warwick had ordered a count and found more than ten thousand men of Kent had joined him. They might have been unarmored and untrained, but Cade had used such men well enough. Warwick remembered that night of blood and chaos all too well.
With his father and Edward of March, Warwick walked right to the southern end of London Bridge, ignoring the city crowds watching like it was a day at the fair.
“I see no king’s men,” Salisbury said. “Ours are weary, though the weakest fell behind a day ago. I would take them in.” His pride was clear as he looked to his son, accepting that the decision would be Warwick’s.
The vast host of Kentish men had come because of Warwick’s recruiters. They looked to the young earl for command, not his father. York’s son did the same, and Salisbury had experienced a revelation when he had seen the landing parties. He could trust his son to lead. It was something of an effort, but he had never been the sort of fool to grasp authority beyond its natural time. For all Salisbury’s expe
rience in war, he had discovered he would step back for his heir, if for no other man.
Warwick sensed his father’s satisfaction and gave private thanks for the years he had spent in Calais. Every father remembers when his son stole or lied, or made a fool of himself with young love. To have been given even a few years apart had allowed Warwick to be tempered away from that stern eye.
“The best reports we have give the Tower garrison as a thousand strong,” Warwick said. “They might surrender, though I have little hope of it. I know only that we cannot leave them to sally out of London behind us. We’ll either force a way in, or bottle them up behind their own walls. You both know the plan. Speed is all, if we are to have any chance of success. Every day we lose here is one more for the king’s forces to grow and make ready.”
He did not mention the Bills of Attainder that had been committed to law. At that moment, on July the fifth, 1460, all their titles and estates had been torn from them. Though none of them spoke of it, they felt the loss like an open wound, bleeding them white. Yet after Ludlow, the king’s army would have dispersed back to farms and manors. Warwick and his father were gambling on a single strike up the country, on reaching King Henry before his lords could gather once again. Anything in law could be overturned after that, once they had the king and his Royal Seal.
Edward of March had listened, observing the pride between father and son. He stood like a statue in his armor, wearing no helmet. He too had ridden from the coast, his horse more suited to pulling a plow than bearing a man. The animal cropped grass some way back, while the restless sea of Kentish men stamped and waited among the armored ranks. There was a sense of anticipation in the air; they could all feel it. Once across that bridge, their pleasant march through the countryside would be at an end.
“I’m not spending another night on cold ground when I could rest in a fine bed and enjoy meat and ale,” Edward said. “The men have come this far today. Tired or not, they’ll march one more mile.”
In comparison to Salisbury, Edward was still fresh, his strength and stamina almost without limit. Each dawn, he’d been the first to rise, bounding to his feet and pissing happily before he was pulling bits of armor into place and yelling for servants to bring him food. Warwick could not fault him for his enthusiasm, though in truth the energy of the young earl could be wearing after too long in his presence.
“Very well,” Warwick said. “I see the two of you won’t be satisfied until we are in the city. Bring the knights and men in armor to the front, Edward. Cade faced archers and I want shields ready.”
“It looks safe enough,” Edward said, peering between the houses and shops on their side of the bridge. “I could walk across right now.”
He took a pace, and Warwick’s expression darkened.
“When you are in command, you can do as you wish, Edward. Until then, you’ll do as I damn well say.”
The young earl met his eyes without embarrassment, letting the moment of silence stretch.
“Have someone else fetch the knights, then. I will be first into the city, I think. For my father’s honor.”
Warwick had tensed under the giant’s stare. He colored slightly, setting his jaw and whistling for a runner to take the order. His authority had been challenged in front of his father, but the truth was that it would take a lot of men to stop the Earl of March if he decided to make a point of it. It was not a time to quarrel and Warwick chose discretion, though his voice was strained as he passed orders to assemble.
Men-at-arms came running up with shields and weapons ready. Behind them, the host of Kentish followers gathered and swirled, the veterans of Cade’s army exchanging stories of the last time with anyone who would listen. The mood was light and only Warwick walked stiffly as the horns blew and the first ranks stepped onto the wide street that ran down the center of London Bridge.
They had entered the city and the crowds still cheered and waved as they crossed the river and reached the streets beyond. Warwick roared an order and the vanguard of armored men swung right, heading toward the Tower and the royal garrison.
CHAPTER 25
Lord Scales was bright red with strangled emotions as he strode along the walls of the Tower of London, looking down at the streets below. From that great height, he could see the army gathering a mile away across the river. He felt a shudder run through him at the sound of horns, signaling they had entered London. At that moment, he would have given anything for another thousand men.
The memories of Jack Cade’s rebellion were still raw, for all it had been a decade before. He had dwelled on that failure to defend the city for a long time, not least for his part in it. With no effort at all, Scales could recall being witness to hundreds of murders, as rioting men turned the city into a charnel house. Order had broken down completely on that appalling night. The thought of seeing anything like that ever again made his old heart thump painfully and his fists clench to cramping. He knew he was working himself up to apoplexy and the danger of collapse. His doctor had warned him about his color, his humors out of balance as old age squeezed out his strength. Yet only anger controlled the terrible fear that made sweat pour from him.
His reward for that night ten years earlier had been a pension of a hundred pounds a year and the use of a royal merchant ship. Scales had made himself wealthy on that trade, buying and selling small cargoes of cloth and wool. Command of the Tower garrison was his last post going into retirement, a sinecure, with a generous pension and a household of servants to tend him. At sixty-three years of age, Scales knew he was no longer a man to go out and face a screaming riot with sword and shield. He felt his weakness in his aching joints and every softly wheezing breath.
Along the walls, cannon teams waited for his command. His one comfort was that the defenses had been made much stronger since Cade’s rebellion. If an enemy force tried to break the gatehouse, he had heavy guns to sweep the street clear in bloody rags. Torsion catapults of a design any Roman legionary would have recognized were also there along the battlements, ready to spring the most terrifying weapon he controlled over the walls, much worse than the guns of bronze and iron. Scales crossed himself, kissing the ring on his finger that held the crest of his family. He would not allow the Tower to be breached. He almost smiled at the thought of what he could unleash against the men of Kent this time.
“Let them come,” he murmured, staring into the dim haze across the river where so many still waited to cross. At the distance of a mile, he could see the Kentish mob as a stain on the land, shrinking in as they entered his city. The people of London were making no effort to stop them, he thought, seething. A man might expect them to remember the terror and damage from the last time, but no, he could hear cheering on the breeze, fools waving their caps at men who would light the capital on fire. Well, they would not have the Tower, if London burned down around it. Scales swore it to himself.
It was cold comfort. His job was to defend the good people from the mob and he could not help them. Beyond a few scattered aldermen and their personal guards, he knew he commanded the only soldiers in London. He clenched his jaw, his eyes cold and calm. The king’s nobles were all in the north, either on their own great estates or around Coventry. Scales had too few men to sally out, no matter what horrors he would see from the walls. All he could do was honor the exact wording of his commission and hold the Tower until such time as reinforcements reached the city. Once again he looked down the line of cannons facing west over the streets. The river ran along the southern walls, with no bridge there to make him fear them coming at his flank. The Tower was a fortress and it would speak in tongues of fire to anyone who approached.
“Stand ready for my order,” he bellowed, hearing his voice echo across the ancient stones. Eight hundred of his men tensed to wait. The gun teams checked their braziers and slow-matches one last time, the iron shot and bags of corned powder already in place. The White Tower loomed over them all and
Scales remembered the carnage and blood-spattered ground he had seen all around it before. He shook his head. It would not happen again.
—
WARWICK, SALISBURY, AND MARCH rode abreast along Thames Street, heading east to the Tower. Their slow progress went some way to block the crowds behind them, though more and more people ducked under and around the horses, rushing on. All three had their swords bared and ready, carried along on a tide of shouting Londoners who seemed to have been waiting for an opportunity to unleash their own anger, regardless of whatever the earls or the men of Kent intended. Warwick saw hundreds bearing cudgels or long knives, rushing from street to street. His horse was buffeted by those trying to shove past and he struggled to understand what was happening. He had wanted to be the spark for rebellion, it was true. He had not known he was sitting on a keg of black powder as he lit the match.
There was no question of leading the crowds anywhere. They all knew where the king’s garrison was and they streamed toward the Tower with Warwick’s army, beckoning them on. Women and children ran with the mob and the pace increased moment by moment until Warwick and his father found themselves trotting to keep Edward of March in sight. Sir Robert Dalton and the big figure of Jameson loped along on either side of the young earl, watching for any danger. Edward rode obliviously, clearly delighted by the chaos as he moved with the tide.
There had been no parliament called for more than three years. Far behind them, the Palace of Westminster was shuttered and damp, unwarmed by fires or the words of men. Warwick knew King Henry had been hidden away in Kenilworth, but not how the rest of the country had fared without the beating heart of his government. It seemed the king’s officers had been cruel when left to enforce the laws on their own. There was mindless rage all around him, and Warwick began to wonder if he could even control what he had begun. When Cade had entered London, the good citizens had barricaded themselves in their homes. This time, they led the way.