The Beggar's Throne Read online

  “When did you meet Grandfather?”

  She smiled at him and stroked his hair, grateful to be able to tell a happier story. “He was a dashing young knight in Bedford’s service, and held himself proudly in many battles with the French. In exchange for his loyal service, he was created Lord Rivers, a great honor for a young knight. After Bedford’s death, he asked for my hand, and I could not say no, although my family did not approve.” Her smile evaporated as quickly as it had appeared, as if an old wound had been opened anew.

  “Why did they not approve, Grandmother?”

  “Thomas, that’s enough for now,” interrupted Elizabeth as she motioned to the nurse. “Your grandmother has traveled a great distance and needs her rest.” The nurse took the reluctantly obedient child by the hand and, with Richard in her free arm, left the room.

  “Thank you, dear,” the duchess said, staring absently out the window.

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you did for love, Mother. It was the most romantic and noble story I ever heard.”

  “I married beneath my station without the king’s permission. To this day I cannot believe that I acted so rashly, and nobility had nothing to do with it, I assure you. I was fortunate indeed that the king allowed the marriage to stand after I paid a substantial fine.” Elizabeth did not miss the hint of a smile that drifted over her mother’s face. “And I thank God that you found such a fine match in Sir John, so that you won’t have to make the difficult decisions that I had to make.”

  “I would have done the same thing, I’m sure,” Elizabeth said.

  “Perhaps you would have,” her mother’s voice trailed off as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  The leafless branches of the oaks outside were suddenly taken by a strong wind and raked against the clouds that billowed up from the south.

  “We have company,” she said, her eyes refocused on the road where it bent around the last hill.

  The duchess opened her eyes and peered intently through the window. “It’s a lone rider. Perhaps a post from York.” She stood quickly.

  “Arthur!” Elizabeth called for the steward as she jumped to her feet. “Arthur, a rider approaches. See to the door.” Her eyes never left the approaching visitor.

  “Very well, my lady,” Arthur said calmly from out in the main hall, the sound of his footsteps making toward the door.

  She was not normally so flustered at the approach of a visitor, but when her husband was away fighting wars there was always cause. The rider was in no apparent hurry, his horse in a slow trot as it neared the first oak.

  “He wears your father’s colors.” Her mother had come to stand next to her. “Come. It’s a post from your father.”

  Until they had heard his news, they would not be able to breathe freely. It had been a full fortnight since the men had left Bradgate, and any sort of evil could have occurred during that time.

  The rider finally arrived at the main entry and was greeted there by Arthur and a stable hand who took his horse as the messenger dismounted.

  The ladies waited impatiently in the sitting room for the messenger to be shown in. When at last Arthur announced him, he entered and bowed deeply.

  “My ladies, Lord Rivers commends himself to his wife and daughter.”

  “Yes, yes,” prodded the duchess. “Is he well, and what of Sir John?”

  “They are both well and send happy news by this unworthy messenger.” As if the sun had broken through an overcast sky, both ladies smiled and relaxed. “The queen’s army has defeated the Duke of York, whose head sits upon the gates of York, in penance for his treason.”

  “Is the rebellion over then?” It was too good to be true.

  “As we speak, Lord Rivers and Sir John are marching on London to free the king, and to rid the realm of Warwick, the last strength of the rebels. This is all I know, and what my master bid me tell you.”

  “Good messenger, this news has given us reason to live another day in the kind embrace of peace.”

  “I also thank you,” added Elizabeth. “And now you must have food and rest. Arthur!” she called out to the hall.

  “Yes, my lady,” the steward said as he entered.

  “Provide food and rest for this good man. And tell the stable to provide a fresh horse in the morning, for he must be off again, back to his master at first light. We’ll have letters for you before you leave,” she said to the messenger.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he responded gratefully as he bowed and followed Arthur from the room.

  “There, you see, my love?” the duchess embraced her daughter, who was misty-eyed with relief. “God has answered our prayers on this occasion. For now, we can hope to enjoy the present, for only He knows what tomorrow brings.”

  Outside the windows, the silent wind lifted spirals of dust from the ground and wafted the particles to points unknown.

  *

  Edward and Hastings rode forth the next morning from Wigmore Castle in front of a column of mounted knights, followed by some four thousand footsoldiers in ranks three abreast. It had been a frosty night with firewood hard to find. The troops had little rest. As their column advanced, the horses spouted steam from their nostrils and the soldiers welcomed the chance to move. A mile from Wigmore, several riders approached.

  “Good morrow to you, my lords.” It was Sir Richard Croft, a longtime ally of the Yorkists, and his retainers.

  “You are most welcome, Sir Richard,” Edward answered. “What can you tell us of Pembroke?”

  “The news is good if you are prepared for battle, my lord. Pembroke and his followers are but a few miles south of here where the old Roman road crosses the river. Mortimer’s Cross, they call it here.”

  “We are prepared,” said Edward grimly.

  Shouts came from the ranks and Edward turned to seek the cause of the commotion. He saw many of his men pointing toward the east, some even breaking ranks in fear. He looked to where they were pointing to see not one, but three suns had climbed over the horizon.

  “This is a wondrous thing, my lord,” whispered Hastings. “What could it mean?”

  “I know not, but the men are breaking ranks. We must do something.” He thought for a moment longer, eyes riveted on the spectacle of the multiple suns. “Summon Father Dennis to me at once!” Hastings nodded and rode to the rear of the column, shouting for the men to hold their places upon pain of death.

  “It is an evil omen, my lord,” someone shouted at Edward.

  Edward raised himself up in his saddle and addressed his men loudly. “Do not be amazed, my friends. This is a wondrous good omen of excellent tidings. It is the Holy Trinity that shines down upon us and blesses our cause.” He dismounted and knelt in prayer. A murmur of agreement washed over the army as Edward’s interpretation was passed down the column, and many crossed themselves.

  Hastings returned with Father Dennis mounted behind him on his horse. Edward greeted him from his knees. “Look how the Lord blesses us with this miracle, Father.”

  Father Dennis was only too happy to concur with Edward’s interpretation. He busied himself with the rituals of his faith and ended by sprinkling holy water in the general direction of the soldiers, starting, of course, with Edward.

  Satisfied that his men were emboldened by the event, Edward ordered the column to reassemble and continue its march toward Pembroke’s position.

  Less than an hour later, Edward’s scouts spotted Pembroke’s army approaching the river from the west.

  “This is the only crossing for miles in either direction, my lord,” said Hastings.

  “If they cross before us, they will be able to defend the crossing with only a few men.” Edward pulled his armored gloves from his hands. “We cannot permit that.” He assessed the ground before them an
d nodded his head. “William, array the archers between the river and Pembroke’s army. We must prevent them from crossing.”

  Hastings frowned. “My lord, to place the river at our backs will prevent any retreat. We will be pinned against the water.”

  “There is no choice. See to the deployment before it’s too late.”

  In the next few minutes, Edward’s army had blocked Pembroke’s path to the crossing and the battle lines were made. Pembroke concentrated his attack at the crossing in the center of Edward’s position, hoping to push his foe until they could not hold the riverbank. When the armies collided, the clash of metal on metal and the din of a thousand screaming men shattered the morning. Bodies fell on the blood-soaked ground by the dozens.

  “Commit the reserve to the center,” yelled Edward at Hastings, pointing to his sagging line near the bridge. Hastings signaled the troops that had been held back from the initial charge in order that they be available where needed most. With their added strength, the middle held and the tide was turned. Pembroke’s troops were largely untried and proved unequal to Edward’s army.

  When the center gave way, the rest of Pembroke’s army broke and retreated to the north and south. Edward’s followers pursued them, butchering the stragglers, until they were recalled to assemble again. Edward met with Hastings near the bridge where his men had erected his tent.

  “We must keep our forces intact for the march on London,” Edward insisted to Hastings. “What news of Pembroke?”

  “He was not among the dead or captured, my lord. We can only assume that he escaped.”

  “He always was a coward.” Edward spat.

  “We have, however, captured his father, Owen Tudor.”

  “Then he will take his son’s place at the block. Bring him before me for swift judgement. His head shall part with his body before I eat my supper. But first, we shall give thanks to God for his helping hand this day. Call Father Dennis to my tent.”

  *

  “Your Highness, this pillaging must stop!”

  Northumberland was desperate to convince the queen to regain control over their troops, who had been sacking town after town on their way south. He stood before the queen in the lavishly furnished royal tent. In attendance to the queen along with Northumberland were Clifford, Somerset, and Sir Andrew Trollope, the queen’s principal captain.

  On their way south from York, the queen’s friends had assembled an enormous army, sixty thousand strong and growing. As they made their way toward London, the troops had sacked most of the villages that they passed, gathering supplies, looting abbeys for valuables, and raping many women who had not been hidden. They had recently arrived at Dunstable and the queen hastily convened her advisors to discuss their next move. But Northumberland had felt an urgent need to challenge the queen’s permission for these incursions against the common townspeople and the Church.

  “We are engendering much ill will with this behavior,” he continued, “and consequences yet unseen may haunt us if it continues.”

  “My lord of Northumberland may be right, Highness,” Somerset stepped forward. “In times such as these it is not wise to make any new enemies, even if they be commoners. And clearly, we do not want to alienate the clergy, for they have many powerful friends.”

  Queen Margaret showed no outward signs that she had any opinion on the matter, nor that she was anything but uninterested in the subject of discussion. But all those present knew that she was silently weighing her options.

  “If I may, Your Highness?” Sir Andrew continued after getting a nod from the queen. “The army must provision itself. These raids on local villages are necessary to that end. I assure you that we use no excessive force to acquire what we need.”

  The queen looked at Clifford, true to her practice of hearing everyone’s opinion before speaking her own mind.

  “Highness, we are wasting time on trivialities. My only concern is the Earl of Warwick, who, I warrant you, will prove a more formidable foe than the late Duke of York.” At that moment, a sentry entered the tent and fell to one knee.

  “Yes, speak,” said the queen impatiently.

  “Your Highness, we have just received the expected intelligence that you bade me bring you forthwith.”

  “Proceed,” Margaret showed her first signs of agitation all evening.

  “The Earl of Warwick has established his camp at the Town of St. Albans. His main army has positioned itself on the north road, with his archers positioned in the town itself.”

  The queen’s agitation disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “You see, my lords, he expects us from the north and not from Dunstable to the west. Our little ruse has worked.” The lords in the tent were forced once again to look upon their queen with begrudging respect. The ruse to which she alluded was Pembroke’s expedition, which she had sent down the northern road with orders to create havoc on the countryside, to create the illusion that the main army was coming from that direction. As a result, it was obvious that Warwick had misdirected his defense.

  “My lords,” said the queen, “it is time to make preparations for the final victory. Sir Andrew, gather your forces and prepare to break camp this very evening. We will not give haughty Warwick a chance to see his error until our swords are at his throat.” She then addressed the sentry again. “You will give the rest of your intelligence to Sir Andrew.”

  When she stood to dismiss the lords, the sentry said, “Your Highness, there is more you may wish to hear.”

  “Well?”

  “Warwick has brought the king himself to St. Albans.”

  Margaret wondered at this new turn of events. “Is this sound intelligence?” she asked sternly. She did not like surprises, especially those she didn’t understand.

  “It is sound, Highness.” The sentry’s voice was firm.

  “Very well. Go.” After the sentry left, she looked at the lords, who all appeared as puzzled as she. “This changes nothing,” she said after a moment’s reflection. “We will proceed as planned. Gather your forces.”

  After everyone had left the tent, she sat on the throne tapping her painted fingernails on the arm rest. “The Lord save you, Henry,” she mumbled to herself, “but stand clear of my way now.”

  *

  As the Earl of Warwick rode through St. Albans checking on his fortifications, he had a distinctly uneasy feeling. With him rode his brothers, George, the Bishop of Exeter, and John, Lord Montagu.

  “John, I’ll need you to stay here in town with the archers. You should be able to defend our rear flank should anybody come in from the Dunstable road.”

  John Neville was a stout man like his brothers, with the same steely blue eyes and muscular build. “You needn’t worry about your flank. I’ll keep it safe,” he said with a broad smile. The sound of approaching horses distracted them. “Look, here comes the duke with our quivering king.”

  With an entourage of ten knights and trailing footsoldiers, John Mowbray, the Duke of Norfolk, rode up to the Neville brothers escorting King Henry, the sixth of that name to rule England.

  Seeing the king, Warwick could not help but feel some pity. Gaunt to the point of emaciation, Henry’s thin face was pale and barely obscured by a thin, graying beard. His bloodshot dark brown eyes did not acknowledge the people and events around him. He had not spoken coherently since he was led into London after his defeat at Northampton, and most thought that so many months of privation in the Tower had left his already fragile mind unhinged.

  “Greetings, my lord of Warwick,” Norfolk spoke in a booming voice. “As you requested, we bring you the king and three thousand of the boldest men of the eastern counties to assist you in this needful time.”

  “You are most welcome, your grace,” said Warwick. As their horses sidled up next to each other they clasped hands in greeti
ng. “I believe you know my brothers, the Bishop of Exeter and Lord Montagu?”

  The duke acknowledged them with a slight bow of his head. “I do indeed. And now perhaps you can tell me what purpose is served by the king’s presence here?”

  “Do you not think it prudent to have the king lead his army against the cantankerous and disobedient queen, who has been acting without his blessing against his lawful heir, the Earl of March?”

  It was a clever ploy. Parliament had, after all, named the Duke of York to be Henry’s heir, and the king had agreed, albeit under some duress. Now that Edward, the Earl of March, had inherited his father’s titles, he was the lawful heir to the throne.

  With Henry at the head of Warwick’s army, the queen was technically the rebel. Although admittedly transparent, this move might help dissuade some of the noble families and the common people from joining forces with Margaret. Norfolk agreed.

  “It is prudent indeed. What arrangements have you made for his safekeeping?”

  Warwick turned to the bishop. “My brother will escort him to the abbey nearby. He’ll be safe enough there until he leads our victorious forces back to London.”

  “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

  Everyone looked at the king, surprised that he had collected his wits enough to say anything. Henry was looking directly at Warwick, his bloodshot eyes piercing and focused.

  “Take him to the abbey,” said Warwick sharply to the bishop. “He needs rest after his long journey.” George took the king’s horse by the reins. “And see to it that he is well guarded!” yelled Warwick. The fool king had succeeded in spoiling his mood.

  *

  At three hours past midnight, Warwick, who had not slept at all, wondered why he had not heard from his scouts. It was a clear, cold February night with a dampness in the air that gave the chill an extra bite. Knowing that the Lancastrians were nearby, he expected an attack at first light and was well prepared, but the lack of intelligence from his scouts was disquieting. After satisfying himself that the main body of his and Norfolk’s forces was well situated to the north of the town, he decided to ride back toward town and check on his brother’s disposition. As he approached the first dwellings of St. Albans, three footsoldiers came running up to him, panting and out of breath.