Henry of Leicester had left his son in nominal command of his army in the North, but the boy had no experience of war. The actual leaders were two of the Earl's most experienced and hard-headed household knights, Sir Thomas Wake and Sir Robert Dalton.
These two were obliged to spend much effort restraining Lancaster's heir, whose head was filled with chivalrous notions of honour and glory.
He and the senior knights were holding an impromptu council on a hill overlooking Leicester. Their host was thickly spread along the hillside. Thousands of spears and lances glinted in the hot afternoon sun, and the atmosphere was muggy, with a promise of a storm to come. A tense quiet had settled over the dense ranks, and the men looked nervous as they stood in battle array, waiting for the order to attack. Somewhere a lone drum beat ominously.
Grosmont was all for pushing on to Leicester and seizing the city, but his seniors insisted on halting the army outside the walls and sending heralds to demand the Sheriff’s surrender. That way, they reasoned, unnecessary bloodshed could be avoided.
“But this is my father's territory!” Grosmont protested. “We do not have to seek permission to enter our own house. They will open their gates or suffer the penalties of treason!”
“We are here in arms against the King,” Sir Thomas reminded his youthful charge, “if anyone stands guilty of treason, it is us. But we must be seen to come as liberators, not conquerors. The Sheriff is known as a vapid, changeable man, and will not dare close his gates against us.”
“And what if he does?” demanded Grosmont. “We will be forced to waste time and lives storming the walls of my father's own property! I despise this caution. It is dishonourable and lacks sense.”
The older men gave no answer to that, and he snorted in disgust. He dragged out the letter Eustace Folville had given him, still tucked into his belt, and waved it at his seniors.
“Have you read this?” he shouted. “A plea from a noble lady, of good blood and lineage, begging us for men to aid her in ridding the land of felons, and how do we respond? By employing the same villains that have threatened her, a brotherhood of common thieves and outlaws! And now they are hunting her, while we stand on this hill and stare at each other. A fine campaign of liberation, to be sure. Sirs, I am ashamed.”
Sir Robert clucked his tongue. “Local feuds are not our concern. Eustace Folville and his men may be disreputable characters, but they seem hardy enough, and we need all the decent fighting men we can get. There will be time enough to amend quarrels and dispense justice when this war is done.
“By then the Lady Clinton may be dead,” Grosmont retorted, “murdered by these hardy, honest yeomen on our payroll, or else destitute, with her home and lands put to the torch. It is not good enough. I will not allow it.”
“With respect, lord, you do not have the choice. Your father put you into our care, to be guided and ruled by us.”
The young man glared at them, trembling in impotent rage. He had inherited a full share of his family's appalling temper, and now he threatened to explode, his fists clenching and unclenching, jaw grinding, face turning blotchy and crimson.
Dalton and Wake turned away, unimpressed. Many years in the service of Grosmont's father, and old Earl Thomas before that, had inured them to Plantaganet tantrums. They had a job to do.
They studied the town spread out below them, discussing the size of the garrison and pointing out weak points in the defences. Their heralds had not yet returned, though the gates had opened to admit them, and the knights had reasonable hopes that the Sheriff would see sense and yield.
When they turned around to check on their lord, he was gone.