The Beggar's Throne Read online

  Samuel smiled sheepishly. “My captain at Warkworth says he’s never seen anyone with a better eye for the bow.” He shrugged. “I never put that much effort into it.”

  “I just pray it serves you well when you need it most.” Jeremy had become serious. When Samuel first left to join Northumberland’s guard, it had seemed like an adventure to them all, but now that real battles were being fought and lives lost by the hundreds, he feared for his old friend every day that passed.

  Samuel could not dwell on such thoughts. “Don’t worry, Jeremy. For all we know, there’s already been some settlement to the issue and there will be no more fighting.” He wished he could believe that himself.

  Arriving at the river, they filled their buckets and began the more arduous return journey. It was another overcast morning and every field and road was soaked. The dampness made him feel cold to his very bones. He had never seen the Tyne run so full or fast.

  Samuel stared at the path before them. The wattle-and-daub huts of Northwood huddled around the stone church at the center of town, its thick rectangular walls and timber roof seeming the only permanent structure in town, with the possible exception of the mill.

  Growing up, this was his world and it had seemed so natural. But now he had seen the great castle of Warkworth and many of the rapidly growing towns between here and there. Now Northwood seemed somehow pathetic. If not for the comforting faces of his loved ones, he’d have fled and never returned.

  “Do you want to hold my son?” Jeremy said with a broad grin. Samuel saw that his friend hadn’t changed a bit since they last spent time together. He silently wished he could say the same about himself.

  *

  That same evening in London, Edmund, the Earl of Rutland, watched from the window of the great hall of Baynards Castle, his father’s house, as sheets of rain pelted the ground below. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, backlighting the gargoyle andirons and casting a flickering light on the Flemish tapestries adorning the length and breadth of the chamber walls. The waters of the River Thames, made dark by the gloomy evening, swirled past the south wall.

  Edmund could not remember another time when the rain had been so persistent for so long. On his journey from Ireland with his father he saw that much of the kingdom’s crops had been ruined by flooding, and he knew that many Englishmen this year would lose their perpetual battle against starvation, even if they managed to avoid a marauding army or pitched battle in their fields. He paced between a large oak table in the center of the room and the window, wondering what was taking his brother Edward so long to arrive. Ever since their father, the Duke of York, had separated them almost a year ago, he had prayed for a safe reunion. For most of his seventeen years he had known only war, and he still saw no end to the deadly cycle. A sudden gust of wind lashed a wave of rain against the window just as the huge wooden doors of the Great Room came open with a fury. Edmund turned to see his brother Edward, the Earl of March, standing with his usual smile wide across his face.

  “Edward!” He sprang across the room and embraced his brother, almost knocking him to the ground. “I thank God to see you well!”

  “And I, you,” Edward said heartily.

  “There’s not a scratch on you,” said Edmund as he examined Edward’s face in disbelief. “How is it you come away from Northampton so unscathed?”

  “It was as if God held his hands around me during the entire battle,” said Edward, crossing himself. He closed the doors to the great room and together they walked back to the fireplace. Edward held his hands over the flames, but seemed to take little comfort from the heat. “I never knew how it would really feel to be surrounded by such tumult. To speak the truth, much of the battle is hard to recall. I was fully engaged, Edmund, surrounded by flashing swords; the air was thick with arrows. There were times, I swear, when I couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe around me.” For a moment he paused, the visions of blood and bodies mangled beyond recognition hard in his mind. “God’s blood, it was intoxicating.” He blinked and the smile returned to his face. “The whole time I was wishing you could have been there by my side. What a brace of warriors we would have made!”

  “If only Father had let me join you instead of hiding with him in Ireland.” Edmund could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “But is it true that Buckingham and the noble Talbot are slain?”

  “Their bodies lay by the king’s tent when we arrived, hacked and bloodied. As for Buckingham, a well deserved end. But Lord Talbot was an honest man and a great warrior. I still grieve for him.” Edward stared at the flames, the fireglow dancing on his face. Suddenly he was angry. “But he betrayed us and went to the queen. Why would he do that, Edmund? We gave him our love.”

  “These are deadly times, Edward. No one knows from day to day who holds authority over his life. The French wars were easy for Lord Talbot, for there was no mistaking the face of the enemy.”

  “The king has failed to keep the peace,” said Edward, “and he lost all that was gained in France by his father. It is clear that our father must take the throne. He is the only one of royal blood who has the strength.”

  “Many will call him usurper,” Edmund said, “and many more will pay the price for our actions with their dearest blood.”

  “You speak like a priest. Do you propose to let haughty Margaret murder us all? She is hated by the commons. Were it not for their fondness for the weakling King Henry, the people of the realm would rise as one and send her packing to France from whence she came.”

  “I despise her and all the Lancastrians as much as you,” said Edmund, “but history is our enemy. They who seize power by force spend their lives protecting themselves against others who would do the same. It has always been so.”

  “Be that as it may, it is too late for regrets. Northampton has sealed our fates and we must take what fortune has given us.”

  Without responding, Edmund walked to the wall opposite the fireplace. A huge Flemish tapestry depicting two jousting knights surrounded by adoring spectators covered the entire wall.

  “And when you become king, as you will one day if Father takes the throne, will we still be friends? Will we still laugh and speak as we always did before?”

  Again the wind drove the rain against the window with a loud shudder. The sadness in Edmund’s voice had moved Edward. They had been raised together at Ludlow Castle near the Welsh border, apart from their eight other brothers and sisters, and had been inseparable since birth.

  “God willing, it will be a Christmas to remember for us all.” He thought for a moment. “Do you remember our last Christmas at Ludlow? We hardly knew that a world existed outside our walls even though these wars bedeviled us even then. I never saw so much food in all my life. Even Oliver sickened himself with too much food.”

  Edward smiled at the thought of Edmund’s adoring page. “How is Oliver?”

  “He is well and never misses a chance to take advantage of my kindness.”

  “Edmund, I swear to you that when I am king, I will not change.” His brother watched the flames dance over the logs that they slowly consumed and said nothing.

  *

  The following morning, in the east courtyard of Baynards Castle, Oliver prepared his master’s horse for a long journey. All around him, the frenzied activities of dozens of knights and retainers made it difficult for him to concentrate. They were all preparing to escort the Duke of York and his party to the north. A further escort of three thousand fighting men waited beyond the city walls at St. John’s Field, including a much smaller contingent assigned to Edward, whose duty would be to scour the west counties for more troops.

  Oliver saw the duke with the Earl of March off near the stable doors, Edward appearing to listen intently to a long set of instructions from his father. Oliver fastened his jerkin against the cold breeze. He was standing ankl
e-deep in thick mud as he held Edmund’s horse by the bridle.

  “Good morning, Oliver.” He had not noticed Edmund approaching from behind, so steeped had he been in his own discomfort.

  “Good morning, my lord,” he said, bowing deeply from the waist.

  The horse twitched with pleasure at the sight of his master. Edmund calmed him with reassuring strokes and soft words.

  “Are you ready for a long journey, Oliver?”

  “Very well prepared, thank you, my lord, though I fear the roads will be difficult indeed thanks to all this bloody rain.” Oliver looked down on his mud-caked shoes with disgust.

  Edmund could not help but smile at the sight of his page so pointedly miserable. “Tell the supply sergeant to let you ride in one of the wagons. There’s no reason for you to walk all the way to Sandal Castle on these roads.”

  “Thank you, my lord!” After a quick bow, he bounded off in search of the sergeant.

  Edward, having heard the last of his father’s interminable advice, walked over and slapped Edmund on the back. “I wish you were coming with us,” he said. With him was his friend Sir William Hastings, who, though ten years older, was Edward’s boon companion, sharing his zest for carousing and late-night antics.

  “Father insists I go with him,” said Edmund, “and there’s no changing his mind. But I’ll see you at Sandal Castle before long.”

  “And when we lock horns with the queen we’ll be side by side as we teach her where her cares should be,” said Edward.

  “That may be difficult,” interjected Hastings, “since we don’t know where the queen is, or even if she’s still in England.”

  “I’ll warrant you she’s gone no farther than Scotland,” said Edward. “The Scottish king would jump at any opportunity to gain territory from English soil.”

  Hastings shook his head. “I don’t think he’s got the stomach for it, my lord. He knows we have friends in his court who would make deadly trouble for him if he waged war against us. At most he’ll give her sanctuary and maybe a few fighting men, but nothing that need concern us. The French king concerns me more closely, as he will surely send her help, and if it’s substantial, she will have a formidable force.”

  “It would be easy to raise many fighting men against such an army. The common folk hate the French like nothing else.”

  “I pray you’re right, my lord,” said Hastings.

  “Most of those commoners you’re talking about,” Edmund objected, “still love King Henry and may not rush to our aid as quickly as you may think. I’ve seen it wherever we travel. His pious and gentle ways have endeared him to the people. If he had had the sense to marry an English queen instead of a French one, we would not have gotten this far.”

  “And maybe the kingdom would have been governed better,” said Edward, “but instead there has been nothing but chaos for decades.”

  Turmoil sounded from the gates of the courtyard. They turned to see the Earl of Warwick and his father, the Earl of Salisbury, enter, their huge warhorses exhaling steam as they pranced by. The Nevilles handed their reins to servants and walked over to where the Duke of York was busy giving last-minute instructions to the captain of his escort.

  “Our father doesn’t seem too pleased to hear the news,” said Edmund, watching the lords. Turning to Hastings, he said, “Sir William, I wonder if I might have a moment with my brother?”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Then to Edward, “I’ll see to our horses.”

  Edward watched him go, then turned to his brother. “What is it, Edmund? You look more distracted than usual.”

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I just wanted to spend a moment with you before we went our separate ways, I suppose.”

  Edward looked into his brother’s eyes, something he usually knew better than to do.

  “I had a dreadful dream last night.”

  “It must have been bad indeed to upset you so.”

  Edmund’s horse grew restless. “I dreamt you were king, sitting on a great throne, but when you asked for pledges from the lords, they turned their backs as one and refused. You were so terribly alone. I tried to speak but had no voice and no one paid me any attention, not even you. It was if I were not there at all.” He shuddered at the memory.

  “These dreams are only the manifestation of your fears,” Edward consoled him with a forced smile. “There is no truth to them.”

  Edmund looked at him for a moment, then smiled weakly. “Perhaps you’re right.” The Neville earls were still talking with the duke. It looked like they were finally coming to some conclusions over strategies, and Edmund felt a renewed fear. “It was good to see you again, Edward,” he said. “If even for this short time.”

  Edward could sense that more needed to be said, and he longed for the time, but at that moment York, Warwick, and Salisbury approached.

  “It’s just as I feared, Edward,” barked the duke. “The northern lords have rallied to the queen’s aid and have been raising troops against us. You must leave with haste to the western counties, where I have good cause to hope you will find friends willing to help us. Are you prepared?”

  “I shall not fail, Father. I need only take my leave of my brother and I’ll be off.”

  “Your brother will see you at Sandal Castle. Your mission is vital and time is short.”

  Hastings brought Edward’s horse to him and mounted his own. “Your escort stands ready, my lord,” he said.

  “God’s protection be with you, my son,” added the Duke of York.

  Edward looked desperately at Edmund. They embraced. “Until Christmas, then.”

  Edmund nodded, and Edward mounted his horse. Just as his brother was about to apply the spurs, Edmund grabbed the halter and for his brother’s ears only said, “For God’s sake, Edward, don’t let them have your soul.” Before his brother could respond, Edmund released the halter and slapped the horse on the rump. Edward took one last look back to the gathering in the courtyard and then disappeared into the streets of London.

  His father’s voice intruded into Edmund’s dark mood. “I’m sorry you couldn’t go with him, son,” he said, “but the business we pursue is vital to the kingdom, and such causes require sacrifices.”

  Edmund was not about to tell the duke that his inability to join Edward was not the cause of his moody behavior. His father wanted to be king, and good intentions notwithstanding would pay any price for the crown. “I understand, Father,” Edmund said and, leading his horse toward the captain of the guard, began making final preparations for the long journey to Sandal Castle.

  CHAPTER II

  “Lord Clifford, what news from Pembroke and Northumberland?” In the short time Margaret had been Henry’s queen she had learned the English language well, but still spoke with a thick French accent that betrayed her lineage. She was attended in the meeting hall of Pontefract Castle by her husband’s two staunchest allies, Clifford and Somerset, and by her typically large entourage. She sat on a dining chair as though it were a throne.

  The wolflike Clifford, his hand on his sword, spoke to his queen. “Majesty, the Earl of Pembroke has your warrant to raise men in the west and will meet us here with all possible haste, but it may be another month before he can join us. The Earl of Northumberland will join us soon with his northern army. Together with the ten thousand already here, we shall have a formidable strength.”

  “And my son,” said the queen. “Have you seen to his safety?”

  “He is closely guarded in the sleeping chambers, Highness,” responded Henry Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset. The queen looked away, but Somerset stood his ground.

  “My lady, if I might be so bold,” the duke continued, “it is my belief that we should strike as quickly as possible toward London. Now — when the rebels are flush with their v
ictory and unprepared for another battle.”

  Somerset was ill advised to remind the queen of the Yorkist victory at Northampton. Her expression turned sour.

  “My lord of Somerset, we will not risk our son’s life again unless we are certain of victory. When Northumberland arrives, we will be well prepared to fight again. Besides, if the impetuous Duke of York remains true to form, he will come here to seek us out. And when he does, we shall give the traitors the welcome they deserve.” One of her advisors stooped to whisper something in her ear.

  “My lady, it is not always wise to allow the enemy to attack on their terms,” Somerset pleaded. “Lord Clifford, you must help me to convince Her Highness.”

  “I will not,” said Clifford, “since my mind and hers are one in this matter.”

  The queen regarded Somerset casually. If only his father still lived, she thought. He had been her greatest supporter and advisor, and she still mourned his death. From the moment of her arrival in this dreadful land, Edmund Beaufort had stood by her and helped her to understand the vagaries of these crude people. My dear Beaufort. I begged you to avoid that battle.

  She stood, signaling a frenzy of activity among her train.

  “My lords, please advise us upon the arrival of Northumberland. For now, we grow tired and would retire.” With that, she left the room, her train with her.

  Somerset watched her leave. “I pray you’re right, Clifford. We both know this is not a popular queen, and given time the rebels are likely to raise many troops from among the wavering noble families.”

  “Regardless of how they feel about the queen, the people still love their king, and while he is a prisoner in the Tower, their sympathies are with us.” He took a step closer to the duke to bring his entire menacing self to bear. “As for the wavering noble families, my father too was slaughtered by the Yorkist traitors. I will be God’s avenging angel for all those who side with York. I swear it on Saint Thomas’ bones.”