The Beggar's Throne Page 13

  “How can you know what lies in the heart of another man?” his father responded with obvious difficulty.

  “How can I ever forgive myself for what has happened to you and Sally…”

  “Samuel, listen to me. I…I’m very proud of you. Never forget that.” His voice trailed off and his breathing became shallow and rasping.

  “Father?” Samuel leaned over the pallet.

  John Miller coughed violently and shuddered in his son’s arms. With his last strength he whispered in Samuel’s ear. “Never forget…” His last breath left his body as a painful sigh.

  Samuel pulled his father’s limp body up and hugged him tightly. He began to sob.

  *

  At last, thought Edward, when Warwick finally entered camp. It had been a lengthy journey northward for his men, but Warwick needed the time to raise troops in the midlands, and while waiting for his cousin to join him Edward had been busy as well. The latest intelligence had the queen’s army at about thirty thousand strong, a formidable force that Edward was determined to match. Now with Warwick’s men, they were close — about twenty thousand in all. And the Duke of Norfolk had promised more men from the eastern and southern counties, who were to arrive soon. Edward had Warwick and Montagu escorted to his tent while he and Hastings reviewed the camp’s fortifications.

  “These Nevilles are powerful men, Sire,” Hastings said. “I fear that one day you may need to prove that you are their master.”

  Edward watched the sunset paint red streaks on the underside of the thickening clouds. Another storm was brewing.

  “I pray this will be our last battle, William,” he said wistfully. “How long do you think it will take us to reach York?”

  “Two days, my lord. We will have to pass around Pontefract first, which will slow our progress.”

  “Very well. We will proceed at first light. We cannot wait on the Duke of Norfolk any longer. Send a runner to inform him to make haste for York. We will surely have need of his services there.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “And William,” Edward looked tired, but the youthful spark of defiance never left him, “we will deal with the Nevilles when occasion gives us leave. Have no fear, my friend.”

  Hastings bowed his head and spurred his horse back toward the royal tent. I hope so, my young king, for I have grave misgivings.

  *

  Heavy footsteps and the clanging of iron against stone fractured the monotonous silence of Samuel’s cell. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since Sally assumed the vigil over their father’s body. She had said nothing since John Miller’s death. Both he and Oliver had attempted to get her to eat, but except for a few sips of water, they had not been successful.

  The dim light became steadily brighter. Three soldiers carrying torches stopped before their cell.

  “Come out, all of you,” one said, loudly unlocking the swing bar that secured the iron gate. Samuel attempted to stand and found that he was almost too weak to get to his feet. Oliver was having the same problem, and Sally had not moved.

  Two of the soldiers entered the cell with their torches, almost blinding Samuel with the intensity.

  “No!” screamed Sally when one grabbed her arm.

  “Leave her,” said Samuel. He was appalled to discover how weak he had become. He took Sally gently by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “There’s nothing more you can do for him, Sally. Please, you must be strong.”

  With her head buried in Samuel’s chest, they stumbled toward the gate.

  “You too, old man,” said the guard, kicking the pallet again.

  “He’s dead, you fool,” said Samuel savagely.

  The guard held his torch over the body. “Why wasn’t I informed?” he barked at the other guards.

  “We had no knowledge of this, sir,” one responded.

  “Would it have made any difference?” said Samuel bitterly.

  “Bring them, quickly.”

  He stormed past them and led the way through long stone lined passageways and up several flights of stairs. In their depleted state and with chains on their ankles, they walked with great difficulty. Finally, at the top of a long flight of stairs, the lead guard flung open a door and the light of day flooded the narrow flight. The prisoners covered their eyes as they were pushed out into the central bailey of Pontefract Castle.

  “Stay here,” ordered the guard. Samuel, Oliver, and Sally huddled together at the base of the high parapet wall. The prisoners trembled in the cold wind, clothed only in filthy rags that had not been changed in weeks. As he grew accustomed to the light, Samuel knew enough about castle operations to know that preparations were being made for a siege. Oliver had come to the same conclusion. Looking at each other as if to gain a silent confirmation, they also knew that in a state of siege, prisoners were usually executed in order to save the resources of the castle. He put his arm around Sally and pulled her close.

  He wondered who the master of Pontefract was, and what army would consider a siege of this formidable keep, but the activity in the courtyard was unmistakable. Food and munitions were brought in across the drawbridge in large wagonloads. Twice the normal complement of lookouts plied the gate and guard posts, and armaments were piled in sheltered locations where they would be easily accessible. From among the rumble of activity, a cart arrived, driven by a surly man who leered at them as he pulled the horse to a halt. He broke into a sinister half-smile that revealed the few black teeth left in his mouth.

  “His Worship says put ’em in,” he said, almost unintelligibly.

  They were lifted into the cart and chained to the corner posts, and Samuel knew that the end of a rope was waiting for them at their destination.

  “Why are you bringing my sister?” Samuel asked one of the guards. “Sir Hugh said she would serve his household.”

  “No!” cried Sally, clinging to him. “I will stay with you. Please don’t let him take me.”

  “Sally, please,” Samuel was desperate. “You don’t understand.”

  “Fear not, churl, she will indeed serve me before we’re finished.” Samuel spun to see Sir Hugh’s hideous permanent sneer. “Lord Clifford wishes to see to your disposition personally, and I have the honor of escorting you to him where he waits in York. But your dear sister is mine, never fear. And I promise you I shall use her well.” At the last words, Sally shrunk closer to Samuel, praying that the nightmare would end soon. Sir Hugh signaled the wartish driver to follow him. The drawbridge was lowered, and they rolled slowly over the moat and onto the road beyond.

  They rode for an hour over rutted, muddy terrain as a light snow began to fall. Sir Hugh and another knight rode before the wagon as they slowly made their way northward. Behind, three footsoldiers and another mounted guard followed, all wearing the colors of Lord Clifford. They crossed an ancient, narrow stone bridge over a small stream into a dense thicket of stout trees. Between Pontefract and the bridge the land had been stripped of its trees centuries ago to make way for the fertile farmland that now lay fallow under winter’s grip.

  Several miles beyond the bridge, a tree had fallen across the road; it would have to be moved to let the wagon pass. Sir Hugh looked at the trunk for a moment, checked the area on either side, and ordered the men in the rear to come forward. They straddled the tree and hefted it high enough to free it from the mud and began to slide it toward the side of the road. Samuel paid no attention to the activity until he heard a familiar whine and thunk that made him jerk his head up over the rail of the cart. He had just enough time to see the guard behind them fall off his horse when another whine and thunk caused him to spin around to see that Sir Hugh had an arrow through his shoulder just beyond where the breastplate of his armor ended. And then chaos erupted from the woods.

  Six men
engaged the footsoldiers, who had finally collected their wits enough to drop the tree and draw their swords. Shouting orders to the others, Sir Hugh’s personal escort grabbed the reins of his master’s horse and together they jumped over the tree and fled north, Sir Hugh hanging on with his good arm. The driver of the cart screamed something unintelligible just before an arrow entered his belly and emerged from his back. He fell off the driver’s seat groaning in agony as he hit the ground.

  While the struggle boiled around them, Samuel ducked back under the rail of the cart and held Sally to shield her. Oliver struggled against his chains, thinking that this might be their chance to escape before the bandits turned their attention to them, but the posts of the wagon proved too stout. Moments after it had begun, the three footsoldiers were dead, and the bandits began to strip the bodies of any valuables.

  “I told you I take my debts seriously,” said a voice from the back of the cart. Nigel of Devon climbed into the wagon and smiled at Samuel and Oliver, then began to unlock the chains that held the three. “It’s a good thing that this guard had the keys to these chains and not one of those two that got away.”

  “Nigel?”

  “Yes, my friend, it is I. Did you think I deserted you?” The last of the chains were off and Nigel and his henchmen helped Sally down from the cart. “I see that you need nourishment,” he said. “Our camp is not far from here, and we have fresh venison. Come,” he said to the others, “help them. They will need their strength in the next few days.”

  *

  In the town of York, Queen Margaret and Lord Clifford were alone in an antechamber of the mayor’s townhome, confiscated by the royal party for the duration of the campaigns. A page had just delivered the latest intelligence from Margaret’s formidable spy network, which had not failed to keep her one step ahead of her enemies ever since the rebellion had started. This time, however, the news could have been better. She had not thought it possible for Edward to gather a strong force this quickly and to have them arrayed and marching northward. Yet the intelligence had him only a day’s march from Pontefract at last word, closer by now. Still, she was also well arrayed and could put more men in the field than he, so it was not as bad as it could have been. But the boldness of this young son of York had surprised her, and that was cause for concern. She had never underestimated an opponent before.

  “It would be better for us if they were delayed as much as possible,” she told Clifford, “and we can think of only one way to accomplish that. Take a small detachment and destroy the bridge over the River Aire where the road crosses south of Saxton. It is too deep for crossing with all their supplies and armaments.”

  “It would not be a difficult thing for them to rebuild a suitable bridge once they see that the bridge is out, Your Highness,” replied Clifford.

  “By then we will have our forces deployed in very favorable positions, and will be ready to end this rebellion once and for all. Inform Captain Trollope that we wish to see him.”

  Clifford noted the fatigue in her voice. He knew that he would have to be strong indeed to keep them from losing the kingdom to the bloody Yorkists.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  *

  Nigel’s camp was well hidden, a few miles to the north of the ambush. The smell of venison cooking over a small pit fire reminded the three prisoners of their hunger, and large portions of the roasted animal were given to each of them once they had been settled next to the warm fire. Samuel and Oliver ate heartily, and even Sally forced herself to eat, although she had said almost nothing since their rescue.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you when you were captured, my friend. You must believe that. I would not wish for my worst enemy to be within the clutches of that villain, Sir Hugh Courteney, of that you can be certain. That night, after you fell asleep, I kept thinking about that man who had sat by the fire in the tavern. I’d seen rogues with that look on their face many times before. So I slipped out quietly and went to find a henchman of mine that lived down the street a ways. It took me a while to find him, as he was unfortunately not with his wife that night, if you have my meaning. When I finally found him, he told me, as I suspected, that from my description the man sounded like a notorious informer for the local magistrate. What I hadn’t counted on was that Clifford had already put the word out on you two, and the local authorities surrounded the house before I could get back to warn you. I’m sure you can figure the rest out.”

  “Who are these men?” asked Samuel. “And for that matter, Nigel, who are you?”

  Nigel nibbled the last bits of meat off the bone and tossed it into the woods.

  “I am what you see before you,” he said, holding up his hand as Samuel was about to berate him. “And I am in the service of King Edward.”

  Samuel could only stare at him blankly. “Who is King Edward?” he asked.

  “While you were imprisoned, Edward, late called the Earl of March, was proclaimed king in London, and we are all sworn to serve him, as we did his father before him.”

  Oliver became interested. “I served the House of York all my life and I never remember having seen you before.”

  “You served York’s son. I served his father as a scout, and as such I kept to the shadows always. I kept him informed as best I could about the state of the realm, me and henchmen like these you see here.”

  Oliver seemed satisfied. “I must see him. I have a message for him.”

  “What message could you have for the king?”

  “From his brother,” he said softly.

  Nigel remembered that these men had been present at Wakefield.

  “You may very well get your chance. I expect the king’s entire army to come up this very road within the next two days.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Samuel.

  “It’s my business to know. And I’ll tell you more: There will be a great battle here soon. The Lancastrians are preparing their forces nearby, and Edward is coming to settle the issue. Within two days’ time we’ll know who will rule this land.”

  *

  Edward and Hastings sat atop their horses in front of the main column of the king’s army. They had passed through the town of Pontefract, out of arrowshot from the castle, not concerned that the great keep was in hostile hands, and headed out of town on the north road over the same path that Samuel’s prison wagon had traveled the day before. Now they waited in the woods for word from his forward scouts. By now he figured that the vanguard detachment had reached the town of Saxton and, in accordance with their orders, would be sending word back regarding news of the Lancastrian army. He was beginning to become concerned when he heard the sound of hooves pounding down the muddy road from the north. It was the forward scout, who pulled his horse up short of the king, dismounted, and knelt.

  “Your Majesty, the bridge across the Aire has been destroyed. There is no passage here for your armaments.”

  The news was not tragic, but it meant delay. He turned to Hastings. “Have the work crews report to the front. We must have a usable bridge back up by tomorrow morning.” Hastings acknowledged his orders and sped back into the ranks.

  “Is there news of Margaret’s army?” Edward asked the scout.

  “I arrived at the river with your vanguard, Sire, and, finding the bridge destroyed, was not able to scout the north side.” Edward was about to dismiss him when the scout added, “There is one, however, who claims to have such knowledge whom I passed on my way here. He is being detained by your guards.” Heavy wagons and dozens of burly footsoldiers began to stream past Edward on their way north to the river, followed by Hastings, who urged them forward.

  “Go quickly and tell the guards to hold that man. We will attend them soon.” The scout bowed, jumped on his horse, and sped north past the work crew. Edward gave the signal to his captain and the entire arm
y continued its march in the same direction.

  His main column came up to the forward camp in less than half an hour, not far from the place where the road crossed the River Aire. There, a contingent of his personal guard stood watch over a group of rough-looking men. He was delighted when he recognized the first one.

  “I had not dared hope to see you again after all this time, Nigel!” he said with a grin.

  “Your Highness does me honor,” said Nigel.

  “I should have known it was you when the scout said somebody could tell me what was happening on the other side of the river. Tell me how does it look?”

  “I would that I had better news for you, Sire. The former king and queen are residing at York, and their army has by now camped on all the best locations above the Dintingdale Valley just south of the town of Towton, eight miles north of the river. The Duke of Somerset, the Earls of Northumberland, Devonshire, and Westmoreland, Lords Clifford, Rivers, Scales, and Andrew Trollope are all with them.”

  It was a noble gathering that Margaret had assembled against him, but Edward had expected it, and they had passed the point of no return years ago in this affair.

  “My lord, there is one here who says he must speak with you. I owe him much and beg you to allow him to approach.”

  “Very well, he may approach.”

  Nigel turned and signaled for one of the filthiest men behind him to come forward. It was not until he had come to within two steps of the king and knelt before him that Edward recognized the young man. “Oliver?” said the king incredulously, appalled by his deplorable condition.

  “Yes, Master,” said Oliver, “I am honored that His Majesty remembers me.” Nigel released his breath. He could now be sure, for the first time, that Oliver’s story was true.

  Edward saw the shackle sores on Oliver’s wrists.