CHAPTER XIV

“My lord of Somerset, what news from the king of the Scots?”

Three years of exile had not broken Margaret’s spirit. Her tireless efforts to secure help from Scotland and France had borne some fruit, even if the reacquisition of the English throne still appeared most unlikely. But she had sworn to fight to restore her son’s birthright until the day of her death.

As for Henry, he accompanied them everywhere but rarely spoke, and at times relapsed into his witless stupors. Margaret would have grieved for him had she the time, but the mission that drove her every breath took precedence. For now he would have to content himself with his biblical studies and daydreams, the contents of which she could only imagine.

Since the deaths of Clifford and Northumberland, her power had been reduced to a fragment of its former self. The Duke of Somerset and the Earl of Pembroke had remained loyal through all their tribulations, but they had never commanded the wealth and resources of her fallen lords. Louis of France had been maddeningly reluctant to provide men and funds for her cause, mainly for fear that Edward and his ally Burgundy would join forces and war against him; he knew that he had not the strength to withstand a joint attack. He did, however, allow her good friend, Count Pierre de Brezé, to join her cause with a small band of men that he had raised with his own funds. His presence had been a godsend to her, not only for his strength but for his unquestioning support. Sir Ralph Percy, the late Earl of Northumberland’s brother, had also joined them, helping with the defense of Bamborough Castle.

Now if only the Scottish army would arrive, they could begin the next phase of the campaign. Margaret had taken up residence at Dunstanborough Castle, where her supporters now gathered to discuss strategy. She had converted the great hall into her throne room, where she sat with Henry.

“Your Highness,” said Somerset, “Edward has arrived at Durham with an army, and Warwick will most likely wait to join him before advancing on our positions. As for the Scots, we have heard that they were dispatched from the king’s court a fortnight ago, but their exact location remains a mystery.”

Margaret became agitated. “We have told you that we will not expose our son to the dangers of a battle with the usurper. We must have assurances that the Scots will arrive before them.”

“If it were in my power to do so, Your Majesty, it would give me great pleasure, but the vicissitudes of the Scots will not permit it.”

“Flee. Flee, good wife. Bloody Warwick comes.” It always startled the court when Henry spoke. “And he will prove more true than all the Dukes of Somerset.”

Somerset was visibly shaken. “My Liege, I protest my loyalty!”

“Peace, gentle Somerset,” interjected the queen. “The king has not been himself, and we know you to be a true subject.” She glared at Henry. “My lord, you have mistaken yourself. It is Warwick who is your enemy, not Somerset.”

His face was devoid of expression. “Flee, good wife.”

“Peace, my lord,” she said sadly. “We are safe here for now.” Her assurances did not seem to comfort him, but he withdrew back into himself. Margaret attempted to restore some decorum to the gathering.

“My lords, we must have some intelligence of the Scottish army. Send all the scouts that we can spare and bring us certain news.”

*

Not a day’s ride from Margaret and Dunstanborough Castle, Warwick and his brother John were at Warkworth Castle, preparing to send a large column of the king’s soldiers toward the former queen. Though Edward had taken ill at Durham, he had already sent his army to join with the Nevilles weeks before, and had sent instructions to the brothers to begin the siege of the Lancastrian-held castles at once.

John marveled at Warkworth’s commanding position on the cliffs above the sea. “This castle has a most pleasant seat, don’t you agree, Richard?”

Warwick was more concerned with the activities in the courtyard below them.

“I like it better since we wrested it from the Percys,” he said gruffly.

“I think I shall ask the king for this castle when we’ve disposed of Margaret and her Frenchmen.”

“If that’s what you want, I’ll see that he gives it to you.”

“You seem very confident that he’s willing to do your bidding.”

“He owes us for his throne and he knows it. Without our strength, even these petty Lancastrian incursions would be a serious threat.” Below them, columns of men were forming up just outside the castle moat.

“If the rumors are true about a Scottish army coming this way, it may not be a petty incursion.”

Warwick dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “The Scots fight better among themselves than against English armies. We have more than enough power to siege the castles and repel the Scots.”

“How will you deploy the men?”

“We’ll send the king’s men with Kent and Scales to direct the siege of Alnwick. It’s the nearest castle and I’ll be better able to keep a close eye on them. You, brother, will take your men to Bamborough, and I will make haste to Dunstanborough. We’ll dispatch daily messengers to each other. We can always break off from one place to assist the other if a Scottish army does dare to invade.”

“I’ll be off then. Good fortune to you, Richard, and we’ll meet again when this business is over.”

Left to himself, Warwick watched as his brother assembled his men and made preparations to leave. Once and for all, we must dispatch this bothersome Margaret, so that we can keep a closer watch on the king and his court.

*

Somerset bowed as the queen entered a small sitting chamber where she liked to speak with her supporters away from Henry.

“What news, my lord,” she asked impatiently.

“Highness, it is certain that Warwick and Edward’s army have arrived at Warkworth. They may already be deployed toward us.”

“And the Scots?”

“I regret that there is still no word.”

Margaret made a quick decision. “We and our train will depart from this place, and await news at Berwick. My lord, we entrust you with the defense of our castles until the Scots arrive to assist you.”

“I will hold them against the devil himself, my lady.”

“May God grant you His protection.”

*

After weeks of siege on the castle, Warwick could feel the growing desperation of those inside Dunstanborough. And from the accounts of the messengers, it seemed things were going equally well at the other two castles. At Bamborough, news came that the defenders were already eating their horses. It was late October, and the cold weather would also prove harder on the defenders than on his troops, who were being constantly replaced with new recruits from Durham and the surrounding country. And as yet there was no sign of a Scottish army. A messenger approached his tent. He was no more than a boy, likely come to serve with one of the knights as a page. He knelt and waited to be recognized.

“Well?” Warwick asked.

“A message from within, Your Worship,” he said. “The Duke of Somerset wishes to discuss terms for the surrender of Dunstanborough Castle.”

“At last,” he dismissed the boy with a quick wave of his hand. To one of his attendants he said, “Arrange a parley with Somerset for this very afternoon. Go.” He pushed the man out of his way and addressed another. “Send word to my brother at Bamborough and tell him we expect to join him within a week.” He smiled with satisfaction.

*

Lord Montagu was delighted the day Warwick rode into camp before Bamborough Castle. The additional troops, he was sure, would bring a quick end to the siege, and he was growing weary of these incessant broils. For three years now he had been fighting, and there were other pursuits that he hoped to enjoy. But he could not pretend to hide his surprise at the sight of the Duke of Somerset riding at Warwick’s side, as if he had been a longtime brother-at-arms instead of the detested enemy that he was. When Warwick dismounted, Montagu embraced him warmly but did not take his eyes off Somerset.

“My brother, you have among you a detested enemy. How came this to be?”

Warwick slapped him on the back. “Come. Let’s retire to your tent and speak of these matters. I have a strong thirst for some grog.”

Montagu’s tent was the model of simplicity, containing only a sleeping pad and a round table with four stools. The dirt floor was covered with a plain red carpet, which showed the wear from dozens of campaigns. He and his brother sat quietly while a page served them with a pitcher of grog and two wood cups.

“And now,” said Montagu impatiently, “tell me why that traitor is not in irons and on his way to the block.”

Warwick emptied his mug and poured himself another.

“As a condition of yielding the castle, he begged the king’s forgiveness and it was granted. Against my advice, mind you. But the king has consistently shown a desire to forgive these Lancastrian swine, the reason for which escapes me.”

“But Somerset was the worst of them. And I’d rather run him through where he stands than turn my back to him.”

“You need not lose sleep over that fool, John. We’ll keep a close eye on him, but he has no following and will not pose a threat to anyone. I asked that he prove his loyalty by joining us on this siege, and of course he agreed, so I’ll know where he is for the time being. But he’s not the only one to whom the foolish king has granted clemency.”

Montagu knew what was coming. “Pembroke?”

Warwick nodded. “The treasonous cur refused the king’s offer of forgiveness, but was granted safe leave to return to Scotland anyway.”

Montagu was incredulous. “It cannot be! He’ll foment rebellion in the north for the rest of his life. How could the king be so blind?”

“He must have felt that it was worth the price to get possession of Dunstanborough. I must confess, I’m not sorry to see the castle in our hands this easily. If sending him on his way saved me months of sitting before that damned castle, then let him go. We’ll see his head on the block soon enough.”

Montagu saw the logic in his brother’s argument. Letting his anger slip, he poured them both another round.

“Then I assume the king would allow us to use the same tactic here?”

“If wretched Percy wishes to throw himself on the king’s mercy, he would be free to go. Somerset has the king’s orders to offer him clemency. He felt it would be more convincing coming from a Lancastrian.”

“Good. If so, we’ll join Kent and Scales at Alnwick, and put an end to this nonsense sooner than I had dared hope. But I tell you plainly, brother, I swear that I’ll not rest until I see Somerset’s head on the block as well.”

“Let us drink to that,” said Warwick, raising his mug. “What is a king’s pardon to us, after all? Come now and let’s offer Percy the same pardon.”

*

Alnwick Castle had been garrisoned from the beginning by Margaret’s French mercenaries, and Warwick knew that this would be the most difficult castle to take, given the hatred the French felt for Englishmen. It had been relatively easy to convince Sir Ralph Percy to yield Bamborough and accept the king’s pardon, but Warwick was not pleased that as a condition of the surrender, Percy had been allowed to remain in charge of both Bamborough and Dunstanborough. However, the two castles had been possessions of the Percy family for generations and, given Sir Ralph’s oath of allegiance to the king, it was a logical boon to grant.

From their position atop a low hill, two arrow-shots’ length from the ramparts of Alnwick, Warwick, Montagu, Kent, Scales and Somerset defiantly glared at the men on the walls of the castle. As the enemy soldiers went about their business on the allure behind the crenelation, Warwick wondered to himself if those within felt the weight of impending doom as they measured his irresistible force.

“Lord Scales,” he called. “How do you estimate their rations?”

Anthony Woodville had always hated Warwick. There had been animosity between the Nevilles and the Woodvilles ever since Elizabeth refused to marry a Yorkist ally who had been suggested to her by the late Duke of York and Warwick. Instead she had married John Grey, a Lancastrian supporter. Only the unfortunate fate that had seen a Yorkist claim the throne left him in his present position of having to bear taking direction from this conceited earl.

“They were not able to properly secure supplies for a long siege, my lord,” he said. “I would estimate their rations to be very low.” Warwick nodded and said nothing.

“We have news that Margaret and Henry have fled to the north looking for safe passage to Berwick,” added Montagu. “It is likely that the French have given her a few boats to ease her trip north.”

“May ill winds greet them all the way,” said Warwick, not really caring what became of them. His attention had been diverted to a rider that galloped furiously toward them, already past the first line of sentinels guarding the north. Upon arrival, he spoke loudly without waiting to be recognized.

“Arm yourselves, great lords, the Scottish army is on my heels, not more than an hour’s ride north.”

The news stunned them all. Several yelled questions, which the scout tried his best to understand and answer. Finally Warwick silenced them with a shout.

“Under whose banner do they ride?”

“They carry the colors of the Earl of Angus, my lord.”

“It is logical,” said Montagu. “Angus is the only one who would dare raise an army for Henry. We had best not underestimate him.”

“I have no intention of doing so, John. What do you estimate their force to be?”

“Five thousand strong, my lord.” The answer brought scowls from the gathered lords. The Scots had managed to surprise them with an army twice the size of their own.

Warwick tightened his resolve. “By God, we will not yield what we have fought so long to achieve. Gather the troops in defensible array.” He pointed to a low, marshy area to the west of their position. “We will make our stand in that sheltered place. Hurry, my lords. There’s not much time.”

Somerset rode with Scales and the others to help array the troops. When they were out of earshot of the Nevilles, he leaned over to Scales and smiled broadly.

“The earl doesn’t seem so haughty all of a sudden.”

Scales nodded. “May the Lord save an arrow just for him.”

*

The north wind blew a foreboding chill into the Earl of Angus. He had thought ill of this excursion from the start, and indeed it had been particularly trying from the day they had set out. Count Pierre de Brezé had appealed to his honor by reminding him of the promises that he had made to Margaret a year before, and it would simply not have been right to refuse her assistance. But he had felt the hand of illness on his soul since the journey had begun, and on several occasions had to stop the progress of the army to allow himself to recuperate. When at last Alnwick Castle came into view, it was through tired eyes that he surveyed the field.

“My lord,” the count addressed Angus, “we have a clear advantage of numbers. We should not hesitate. Perhaps you would permit me the honor of leading the troops.” He knew Angus was in no condition to do so.

Angus ignored him. “Why have they abandoned their positions along the high ground?” With the freezing rain on his face, Angus felt a wave of nausea coming over him and fought to maintain his composure. The scouts came back and reported that the English were fortifying their position in the low area.

“My lord, we must press our advantage now!”

“I tell you, I fear a trap,” Angus managed to say with some conviction. A messenger arrived from behind them. “Speak,” he commanded.

“My lord, Queen Margaret and King Henry have gained sea passage toward Berwick and are not within this castle.”

“What?” Angus turned angrily toward Brezé. “You told me we were riding to her defense and now I find that she has fled?”

“My lord,” pleaded Brezé, “surely you see that she had to protect her family?”

Angus shook his head to clear his misty vision. A new wave of nausea gripped him.

“I’ll not risk the lives of these brave men for nothing,” he said, waving at the ranks behind him. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to be off his horse and warm within his own castle. “My lords,” he yelled as he spurred his horse around, “let us withdraw. If Henry leads us back, we’ll return. Until then, away!”

Brezé was apoplectic with anger, but argument was futile. As the army began its retreat, he wondered which evil spirit sat on Edward’s shoulder that granted him such good fortune.

*

At dawn the following day, the French garrison commander surrendered the castle without condition. His men were starved half to death and the departure of the Scottish army had so demoralized them, they would have most likely murdered him. The garrison was given safe conduct to join the retreating Scottish army, and Warwick entered Alnwick Castle in celebration. It was time to rest from a long campaign that had seen the final expulsion of the Lancastrians from all the northern castles except Berwick, but that castle would be regained someday as well, Warwick was certain. He would leave his brother here to maintain order, and make haste back to the king’s court, where he could turn his attention to more interesting matters of state.

*

The once king and queen of all England, Henry and Margaret, with their son, the ten-year-old Prince of Wales, and a small party of Frenchmen boarded four carvels near Bamborough with hopes of reaching Berwick Castle to the north in a matter of a day or two. But they had encountered rough seas from the first day and now the wind, howling from the east, whipped the waves into monstrous swells. Henry stood with the captain near the wheelhouse, having left Margaret amidships huddled with the prince. Henry grabbed the captain by his cloak and yelled over the wind.

“I cannot leave my kingdom! Take us back.”

The captain struggled with the wheel as if fighting demons for control.

“My lord, these are dangerous seas,” he yelled back. “I could not put you ashore even if I had the desire.”

Henry was persistent. “The ship is lost. I see its ghost in the waves. Take me back before it’s too late!”

“I tell you plainly, my lord, this madness endangers us all.” He pulled Henry’s hands off and pushed the king to the deck. “If we live, I’ll answer to the hangman!”

A wall of water crashed against the boat and washed over the deck, taking several of the soldiers over the opposite side. The carvel took a deep plunge into the swell as water rushed through hatchways into the bowels of the ship. Henry looked to see where his wife and son were drenched from the last wave and clinging desperately to each other and to a lifeboat that was sheltering them in the center of the ship.

“I see the ghost,” he mumbled to no one in particular as he swung under a railing and jumped down to the main deck. A French soldier tried to stop him, but another wave crashed against the deck at the moment he released his hold on the rigging, sweeping the guard into the sea before he saw it coming. The captain could not see what had become of the king, but had all he could manage trying to keep the ship from foundering. The next moment, he watched in amazement as feeble Henry emerged from behind a staircase and slowly made his way to where Margaret was still clinging to the life raft.

“My wife,” he yelled at her, “we must be off this ship. I have seen its ghost in the waves.”

Eyes wide with terror, she assisted him under the life boat, desperately seeking the shore line.

Another surge of water washed the deck, dumping more sea into the hatchways. The carvel began to founder. Two of the crew joined them under the life boat at great risk from the waves.

“Your Majesties, we must release this boat into the water. It’s our only chance,” one of them yelled.

“Yes, yes,” said Henry, “we must release the boat!” But Margaret was close to hysterics and could not stand to lose their haven. Before she could say anything, another wave crashed across the deck and drenched them again. By then the sailors were releasing the tie-downs.

“My son, my son,” yelled Margaret.

“I’ll be all right, Mother,” the boy assured her as a sailor pulled him out from under the raft.

“Hurry, we must be off before another wave hits. The ship is going down!” He helped Margaret out from under the boat and Henry followed them. The last tie-down was released and the sailors used pulleys to lower the boat over the side, then assisted the royal family in. The sailors looked around and yelled for anyone who could join them before releasing the last line. Three of the French soldiers had been near enough to make it.

They drifted away from the ship as it took another deep dive into a swell from which it did not fully recover. The bow of the boat stayed submerged. The sailors were able to keep the small boat turned into the swells, and they rose and fell with the sea but did not take water. The carvel slipped bow first into the sea and disappeared. The other ships were nowhere in sight. Margaret sought desperately for the shoreline and found it, much closer than she had dared hope.

“Can we make it?” she asked pointing to land.

“If God and the sea are willing,” one of the sailors said as he pulled on the oar. “But we have to find a safe place to ride out the storm away from those rocks, where we can get ashore.”

“I will stand again on my kingdom,” mumbled Henry to no one in particular. He had become remarkably calm and serene.

For the first time, Margaret reflected on her husband’s recent penchant for prophesying the future, and it occurred to her that several of his predictions had come true.

And Henry did indeed walk upon the soil of his kingdom again. Two hours of backbreaking rowing by the sailors had landed them on a small beach between rock outcroppings that sheltered them as the storm blew over.

The next day they took to the sea again in their small boat, which when rigged with its sail cut swiftly through the waves. They sped up the coast, guests of a strong but friendly west wind, the relatively short distance that remained between them and Berwick Castle. There they were well received by the Scottish garrison, and were once again masters of at least this one place. The news of the surrender of all the northern castles was a crushing blow, but even worse news greeted them. Their principal ally in Scotland, the Earl of Angus, had died, and the army that he had promised them was dispersed. If that were not bad enough, Somerset and Percy had accepted Edward’s pardon. As she hugged her son to her breast, Margaret knew she had lost all of her great allies, her remaining possessions on the carvel, and her husband to madness.