CHAPTER III

Edward, Earl of March, lay awake under his bedspread contemplating the naked young girl beside him. Hastings had an eye for beauty and had found her feeding pigs outside the town of Oxford. Even though it took his retainers a good hour to clean her up, once done she was quite attractive. Edward marveled to himself how the perfect shape of her buttocks was apparent even through the bed covers. And she was marvelous company, the kind Edward liked most: awed by his presence, she had little to say unless responding to questions. But when it came time to please him, she withheld no favors and gladly accommodated his every desire.

Still, in the sobering light of the morning, his lust quite satisfied, he felt strangely empty. He sat up with his arms cradled around his knees, staring intently at a point somewhere in the middle of his tent. Normally, while traveling through the country, he would stay with some noble family as a guest. On this trip he felt more secure sleeping with his escort, as if it were a campaign. It was important for his men to remember that a state of war did exist and he wanted them battle ready.

He heard the men of the morning watch going about their duties, preparing food and seeing to the horses. “Are you risen, my lord?” a voice called from outside the canvas.

“Come ahead, Sir William,” said Edward, recognizing Hastings’ voice. Shaking off the morning haze from his thoughts, he threw off his bedcoverings, pulled on his linen drawers, and began splashing cold water on his face from his washbasin. Hastings could not help but notice what a fine figure of a man Edward had become. Easily the tallest man in his entourage, he was broad-chested with well-muscled arms and shoulders, flawlessly lean. His sharp blue eyes were framed by thick brown hair that this morning was quite disheveled.

“Sir William! What news this morning?” Edward was pleasant but not as jovial as Hastings had expected him to be, given the evening’s activities. He looked to where the young girl had ducked beneath the bedcovers and wondered if she had not been entirely satisfactory for the earl.

“I trust you had a pleasant evening, my lord?” Edward asked.

“Quite pleasant, thank you,” he said after a quick glance at the bed. Hastings was relieved. “By the way, what’s her name?”

“To be honest, I didn’t take time to ask her, my lord. What is your name, wench?” he called over to the bed. A muffled sound came from somewhere underneath the thick covers. Hastings stepped to the bed and pulled the covers off. The startled young girl sat up holding her arms modestly over her breasts.

“What is your name?” Hastings repeated the question now that he had her full attention.

“Letitia, if you please, my lord,” she said in a barely audible voice.

“Letitia,” repeated Edward, rolling the word off his tongue. “What an unusual name. What does it mean?” He felt every name should have a purpose.

“It was my mother’s name, my lord,” she responded timidly. “God rest her soul.”

“Is she dead, then?” asked Edward.

“Yes, my lord. The black death took her two years ago.” Hastings took an involuntary step backward and Edward hurriedly crossed himself with exaggerated reverence. Few earthly terrors conjured up fear as did mention of the black death, a plague that had taken the lives of a third of the subjects of the realm not a hundred years past.

“Two years ago, you say?” Edward glared at her.

“Yes, my lord, it was two years, I swear.” Edward and Hastings relaxed with that assurance. Edward pulled a long sleeved tunic over his head and tightened the leather fasteners. Over that he pulled a looser, fur-lined cloak which he fastened with a small gold brooch, shaped in the image of a stylized rose.

“Sir William, it’s time we take to the road again. Has our post returned from Gloucester?” Edward had sent several messengers out to the western towns of the Welsh marches requiring fighting men from any who wished to retain the good wishes of the Duke of York. He knew that the queen was also raising troops in the same area using the Earl of Pembroke as her agent, and therefore time was of the essence.

“The post has returned, my lord,” said Hastings. “Your father’s troops are mustering near Gloucester. Pembroke’s whereabouts are still unknown, but these people are loyal to your father, fear them not. The queen’s name will invoke little love here.”

“I have faith that you’re right, Sir William. Where is my confessor?”

“He awaits your pleasure outside. Shall I call him in?”

“He makes my penance more severe when I keep him waiting too long, so I suppose you had better.” There was a sound like a throat clearing behind them, which reminded them that Letitia was still in the bed, naked and shivering.

“I suppose you had better get dressed before he comes in here,” said Edward. She sprang up and gratefully started pulling on her clothes. “I imagine I’ll be saying a few extra Hail Marys on your account anyway, but there’s no point making him crazy at the sight of female flesh. I could be on my knees till noon.”

“And now you may send in my confessor,” Edward said, turning to Hastings. “It’s time we get on the road to Gloucester, before the queen’s men have a chance to prevail upon these wavering noble families.”

With a slight bow of his head, Hastings took Letitia and left the tent. A moment later, Father Dennis entered through the flap. “Good morning, my son. I trust you slept well?” he asked after looking pointedly and disapprovingly at the rumpled bedcovers.

“Very well, thank you, Father. And yourself?”

“Our Lord in Heaven has not granted me the gift of carefree nights, my son. I carry the sins of the world with me, which leaves little time for anything but prayer.” Edward wondered if he was about to get one of Father Dennis’ long sermons regarding the evils of the flesh. But instead, his confessor said simply, “Come, let us begin. We have much to pray for today.”

Edward knelt before Father Dennis and began the long litany of prayer that started every day of his life. As he feared, it was an extra-long session that morning.

*

“Are you going to the christening for Jeremy and Edith’s new baby? Samuel and I are to stand as sponsors.” Emma was pleased at the prospect of being a godparent.

It had been two days since the branch had been freed. Samuel had spent most of the time with Jeremy. Emma wanted to see more of Samuel but was disappointed that things had not improved between him and Christopher. She and Sally were now preparing the evening meal, which she hoped Samuel would stay at the mill long enough to share.

“Of course I’ll be there,” said Sally, a thin smile finally gracing her face. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

After a moment Emma asked, “Is it true what I hear about the Smith’s son, Stephen?”

“What have you heard?” Sally asked sharply.

“Only that he takes every opportunity to talk with you, and that he tends to pay more attention to you in church than to his prayers.”

Sally was indignant, “I don’t know who told you that but it is simply not true. And even if it were, I can’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Very well,” Emma’s reply was followed by a heavy sigh. “But I did see you two talking closely at the village garden last week.”

The garden was an area near the church set apart from the crop fields on which the villagers grew vegetables such as peas, beans, cabbage, and spinach. A communal effort, they’d found, yielded better crops — though, to be sure, each family still had its own plot around its cottage. Sally spent a great deal of time tending it, not only because she had no children yet to tend, but also because she enjoyed the garden a great deal. Naturally, that was where she frequently talked with the smith’s son. And despite her protestations, she did enjoy his company.

There was a disturbance at the front door. Someone was talking and kicking the mud off his feet. Sally was glad for the interruption. She jumped up to open the door and found outside, still working to remove the black mud from their feet, Jeremy and his father, Gilbert, the town reeve.

The reeve was a local farmer selected by the villagers for a term to oversee the earl’s work around Northwood. It was a post that was coveted not so much because of the authority it gave but because to be elected was a demonstration of honor and respect from one’s fellow villagers.

Gilbert had been elected reeve just earlier that month and was still uncomfortable in the role. Though few villagers had his skill behind a plowshare, in the ways of politics he was clearly a farmboy.

Sally had always liked Gilbert, especially his quick wit and easy smile. She smiled to see him hopping on one foot and scowling at the mud on his other foot.

“Welcome, Gilbert,” she said, giggling. “Please come in.”

“Thank you, young miss,” he said lightly, returning to his dirty task. “This bloody mud will be the death of us,” he mumbled. At last they were clean enough to enter, and Emma served mugs of barley ale while the men sat at the table close to the hearth, allowing the heat to chase the chill.

“Where is Samuel?” asked Gilbert.

“He’s in the mill with his father and brother,” said Emma, stirring the porridge again.

“You’d better call them all. We have difficult news.”

Emma looked at Jeremy. “My God. Is it Edith?”

“Edith and the child are both well, Emma,” Jeremy quickly reassured her.

She exhaled loudly. “You gave me a scare. What news is this, then?”

“I have to ask you again to call the men here, Emma. It is news they must hear.”

“I’ll get them,” Sally volunteered.

They all sat silently until the miller and his sons arrived from the mill room.

“Gilbert, you have news for us, I’m told.” John Miller said as they entered.

“I’ve a message from Warkworth, an order from the earl himself.” He took a large swallow of ale, further heightening the tension around him. He was choosing his words carefully.

“Then tell us,” said Samuel impatiently.

“The earl has recalled all his retainers, and that includes you, of course, Samuel. What’s more, we’re to send him five more able bodies. You’re all to be on your way by the time the sun rises again.”

Sally and Emma were crestfallen. It meant Samuel would not be spending Christmas with them and, far worse than that, he would in all likelihood be going into battle with the earl. Samuel sat emotionless staring at the table. He did not know why this news had surprised him so. It was Christopher who broke the silence.

“Did the messenger give any news of what is afoot?”

“He said only that new armies are needed to fight the rebellion.”

So the war continues, thought Samuel. “There’s no use feeling sad about it,” he said. “We have no choice but to comply. Have you found the other five men?”

“Tonight we gather at the church and choose. I should think we’ll have enough who are willing. And Jeremy will be one.”

Samuel’s jaw dropped and the rest stood in stunned silence.

“But he has a new child to care for,” Sally finally spoke what the others were thinking.

“He has a duty to the earl, and I won’t have it said that I would send another to war but not my son.”

“Surely you will have enough volunteers. Edith will need him.” Emma was incensed.

“The decision is made. I will see to Edith while he’s away. My son understands.” Jeremy said nothing but nodded his head in agreement.

“How can you send him into these wars with no formal training?” Samuel could be silent no longer. “These are bloody wars, and he’ll not know how to protect himself.”

“He’ll have as much training as the rest of them, except for yourself, Samuel. And I’m sure you’ll look out for him.”

Samuel felt a great weight on his shoulders.

“I’m going to the church,” Sally said and made for the door.

“Wait. I’ll go with you,” said Emma. She swung the kettle of porridge away from the flames, and together they left.

*

Edmund stood atop the barbican of Sandal Castle, a single tower directly over the main gates. From his vantage point he commanded an extraordinary view of the surrounding countryside in all directions. Low clouds scoured the gently rolling hills as they swept slowly to the east, leaving pockets of fog in their wake. To the north, across a low copse and the River Calder, the town of Wakefield lay nestled between two low hills, betrayed only by a handful of thatched roofs. While it was too distant to make out human activity, Edmund imagined the townsfolk there, busily going about their daily tasks.

Edmund felt uncommonly at peace. Behind him, the activities of castle life filled the courtyard. Chickens, pigs, and sundry other animals wandered wherever they had a notion. Hundreds of diverse chores were being performed by dozens of servants.

Edmund saw a man approach dressed in the plush, velvet-lined habit of a bishop. The Bishop of Exeter waved to catch Edmund’s attention as he strode toward him along the allure. Edmund bolstered himself for the interruption. Though he liked the bishop, he did not want company.

George Neville was the Earl of Warwick’s younger brother, and another high-placed member of that powerful family. When older brothers took all the attractive hereditary titles in a noble house, their younger kin were often left to join the clergy. But in the case of the Neville family, powerful bishoprics were usually available. The bishop was a large man like his brother. Though not honed by years of military combat and not as imposing in appearance, he had the same penetrating pale blue eyes.

“Well met, Your Grace,” said Edmund when the bishop arrived on the platform. “Had I but known you wished to speak to me, I would have come down to you.” Or run the other way.

“Thanks for your greeting, my lord.” Edmund kissed the bishop’s ring. “You have found a wonderful place to admire the Lord’s work,” he said.

“I used to spend many hours in a similar place at Ludlow where Edward and I grew up. There was a high turret from where, I swear, you could see all of the Welsh highlands. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent there when I needed to be alone.”

“I normally would not wish to intrude into another’s solitude, but I felt it would be an opportune time for us to talk.”

“You are not intruding, Your Grace,” said Edmund. “It was a long journey from London and I was only taking a moment to refresh myself.”

“I see your father was quite successful raising troops along the way.” He gestured at the hundreds of campsites of the billeted troops outside the walls of the castle.

“There are many who always seem willing to go to war for one cause or another.”

The bishop let the comment go. “My father tells me French Margaret is holed up nearby in Pontefract, and has offered a Christmas truce.”

“Yes, the envoy from the queen came yesterday. Father was only too content to grant a truce, since it will be some weeks before Edward can arrive with his help.” Edmund flicked an ant from the parapet and watched it fly out of sight on its way to the moat below. “I pray he arrives soon.”

The bishop turned to face him. “Tell me what’s troubling you, my son. I have seen a dark mood on you since you returned from Ireland.”

Edmund considered his answer for a moment, wondering if he really wanted to confide in this man. “I can’t help feeling I’m never going to see my brother again,” he said at last.

The bishop seemed to understand. “You must have faith that history will bend to God’s will. We who are true to His wishes will be blessed with victory in the end.”

“These are not heathens we fight, Your Grace, but our cousins.”

“It is for God alone to judge the right and wrong of all things. Being all of us wayward children, we can only do that which we feel in our hearts is true. The grace of God will protect us from folly.”

“Can you tell me here, before God, that our cause is holy? To rebel against His anointed king, and to take up arms against the peace? Is that what you came up here to tell me?”

The bishop stared out over the lonely winter-killed fields. “I cannot honestly say if there is a right or wrong in these proceedings, but the loss of our French possessions and the Lancastrians’ own inability to make peace among themselves has caused this turmoil in the kingdom, not any actions taken by your father. I believe that you are taking too much responsibility on your shoulders. Times are changing all around us, my son. Even among the common people there is a restless mood, as if the values that have bound us together since the birth of the Savior are no longer sufficient. They seek more from life than ever before; they now expect such things as comfort of the flesh and beauty in this life.”

“Is it so wrong to seek beauty and happiness?”

“It is wrong only if one forgets that such things are God’s alone to bestow, and the pursuit of such worldliness stands between us and Paradise like a great wall.”

“It is a hard life you would condemn us to, Your Grace.”

“It is written that the rewards are greatest for those who sacrifice the most.” He put his hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “Will you not tell what has put you in such a melancholy state?”

“I am honestly not sure I know myself, Your Grace,” he answered. “I’ve had feelings of foreboding; just glimpses of something that frightens me, but there is no shape or definition to them.”

“Perhaps you simply fear the outcome of these wars and the possible fate of your family. It is a common thing.”

“I do not fear death, Your Grace,” Edmund said forcefully. “I only experience these feelings when I’m with my brother, as if the bond between us flows like a river.” A thought occurred to him. “Do you suppose a sacrifice would be made in vain if it were made for a cause one did not believe in?”

The bishop looked intently at the young man, puzzled by the nature of his question.

“I would think that would depend upon the motivation behind the sacrifice. One’s intentions are meaningless. Unless the soul is pure, all actions will come to ruin.”

“But who among us is truly pure of soul?”

“I speak of the purity that comes of faith. He who plunges into the abyss of the unknown for the sake of his own soul need have no fear, for to him, the Lord promises salvation.”

Edmund’s composure seemed to change as the bishop watched, as if a conundrum eating at his psyche had finally been resolved.

“What is it, my son?” the prelate asked quietly.

Edmund smiled. “I am no longer troubled, Your Grace. ” He left before the bishop could say another thing.

*

Samuel and Jeremy stood before Pontefract Castle, a dark and foreboding place. They and the other thousands of troops that arrived this morning with the Earl of Northumberland were making camp nearby where the army of the Duke of Somerset and Lord Clifford’s men had been billeted for three weeks. They were amazed to see the size of the army that the queen had been able to command, given her lack of popularity and the recent defeat at Northampton. There were easily twenty thousand men-at-arms camped here, half of whom had been raised by Northumberland. And these were not the rabble that were frequently gathered during such arraying, but a disciplined army that had been tested by frequent summonses to battle Scottish incursions. They were northerners, formidable fighters.

Samuel had arranged for Jeremy to camp with him and the rest of Northumberland’s personal guard. They had already stowed their few belongings at their sleeping pads, and now had the rest of the day to recuperate from the long march.

Samuel and Jeremy left the campsite and the unusually quiet members of the earl’s guard behind and meandered toward Pontefract’s moat. The bridge to the courtyard was lowered, but the gate was heavily guarded. At the slightest hint of trouble the bridge could be raised in less time than it would take to cross it. The castle was reputed to be the strongest in the realm, though it had never been tested in a siege. Staring up at the impossibly tall battlements, Samuel silently thanked God he would not be part of the army that first tested it. Located at one end of the castle was the stone keep, a massive structure constructed of one semicircular tower after another all the way around. Stretching away from the keep were the main walls of the castle, far thicker and higher than any he had seen before, which enclosed acres of land and were fortified by seven square towers, the largest of which guarded the main entrance and drawbridge. Two outer walls enclosed even larger areas where the troops were billeted.

Samuel looked out over the countless campfires that dotted the fields surrounding the castle, their smoke mingling with the low fog in the evening gloom. So many men, he thought. He began to shiver against a cold that came from within.

“I never knew it would be so wondrous,” remarked Jeremy in awe. He had never before in his life left the area around Northwood. “It’s much bigger even than Warkworth.”

“The more I see of these castles, the less I like to be near them,” Samuel said almost to himself.

“And look at all these men! I never thought to see such a gathering of men-at-arms.” He counted off more than fifty small fires just in the small area nearest to them.

“I wish you hadn’t come, Jeremy.”

Jeremy refocused his attention on his friend. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” It was not an accusation but a simple observation. “I never thought you were afraid of anything.”

“What do you see out there, Jeremy? Do you see their thirst for blood? Don’t be fooled. That’s only a mask to hide the fear every one of them feels, and I’m no different. You don’t become braver after many battles. You just learn to hide it better.”

Jeremy shivered against the night’s chill. “Will I be with you when the battle begins?”

“When it begins and when it ends, my friend. I promise you that.” Samuel closed his eyes hoping to see the faces of his family, but once again there was only the darkness he shared with Pontefract Castle.

*

In Pontefract, Clifford, Northumberland, and his son Sir Henry followed a knight past the huge double oak doors of the throne room and into the presence of Queen Margaret. Margaret was seated on the edge of the throne in deep conversation with a man dressed in canonical robes Clifford did not recognize. No doubt, he thought with distaste, a member of the French clergy.

The queen was dressed for battle in a leather tunic with the red rose symbol of the House of Lancaster emblazoned on the front. She broke off her conversation and held out her hand to Northumberland.

“You are most welcome, my lord of Northumberland,” she beamed. The earl kissed her hand.

“I thank Your Highness, and may God protect you and your royal family in these troubled times.”

“Rise, noble lords,” granted Margaret. “We see in your faces the final victory in this vile rebellion. Lord Clifford, what is the latest intelligence?”

Clifford marveled to himself how relentless this woman could be, and though his personal dislike for her would never change, he had to admire her determination. She was like an arrow in flight; that which stood in her path would surely feel her wrath.

“The rebels are attempting to secure more troops from around the area, but we have intercepted most of their new men for ourselves. They cannot match our numbers.”

“Highness, if I may,” interjected Somerset. “Sandal is a formidable fortress and we risk a great deal in a frontal assault. We would surely lose more men attempting to breach its walls than the rebels will defending them.”

“Do you have a better plan?” she said casually.

“I urge Your Highness still to proceed with haste to London. With our present numbers, we can free the king and secure the throne.”

“And leave the rebels to our rear?” Everyone in the room looked to see who had had the temerity to question the duke. Young Henry Percy stood defiantly under their scrutiny, but wondered nevertheless if he should have kept his silence.

“Who is this brash young knight?” the queen finally asked, the severity of her words tinged with mirth.

“Majesty, please forgive the forwardness of my son, Henry,” said Northumberland. “He is new to the court and unschooled in when to address his betters.”

After considering the young man for a moment, Margaret offered her hand to Sir Henry.

“It may be so, my lord,” she said finally, “but he suffers only from the zeal of youth, and we are well served by such courage. Rise, Sir Henry, and be free to render to us your opinion when you feel strongly.”

“I thank Your Highness,” said Henry as he retreated to his father’s side. He did not fail, however, to see Somerset glaring at him.

“Lord Clifford, what say you to my lord of Somerset’s advice?”

“Young Henry is right,” Clifford asserted in a deliberately loud voice. “We have the chance now to take the traitors and I, for one, cannot wait another year to feel the blood of York on my hands. We can march to London after the rebel York feels the point of my sword.”

“We concur,” said Margaret. “And do not fear, my lord of Somerset, we have a notion that we will not need to lay siege to Sandal Castle, if York is true to form. Our trap is set from which the rebel duke will not emerge alive. My lords, array your men for battle. Tomorrow before the sun sets, the rebellion will be over.”

The queen stood and her train with her. She swept from the room without another word, leaving the four noblemen alone by the throne.

“I pray she is right,” said Somerset, “for tomorrow many wives will lose their men.”

Clifford did not hear him. His hand was clenched on the haft of his enormous sword, and he looked at no one in particular.