The Red Rose of Anjou - Plaidy Jean (книги онлайн полные версии бесплатно .TXT) 📗
She kept him with her. She taught him herself He was the whole meaning of life to her; she had long ago decided that Henry could never be made into the man she wanted. Therefore it would have to be Edward. Henry was now in the hands of her enemies. That was not such a tragedy as it would have been but for Edward. Edward was the important one; he was her future King; and he was also her very own child. Dearly she loved him; everything she did was for his sake.
So began her march south.
‘Sooner or later,’ she told the little Prince, ‘we shall come face to face with the armies of the Duke of York or the Earl of Warwick and when we do we shall give battle and we shall win...win...win...’
‘Win,’ cried the young Prince firmly as she had taught him.
She caught him to her and held him fast. She was a demonstrative mother. ‘And one day there will be a crown on this little head, I promise you. Even though the wicked Duke of York will try to snatch it from you.’
Little Edward cried: ‘He never shall!’ just as she had taught him, and he touched the silk red rose which was sewn into his tunic.
He rode beside her at the head of the army and he looked all the time for the spies of the wicked Duke of York and those of the equally wicked Earl of Warwick.
The people in the towns were hostile as they came south. How-dared the foreign woman bring with her this band of ruffians who looked on the spoils they could collect from the towns and the villages as fair game. The trouble was that when the looting started beggars and vagabonds came in from all over the country to join in.
Margaret had never lost the talent for turning the people against her.
Meanwhile as far south as London there was anxiety and when Warwick set out with an army many joined him. Warwick took the King with him; he was anxious to show that he was still Henry’s loyal servant. It had always been his cry that it was not the crown he wanted to take; he merely wanted to make sure that the country was well governed. He accepted Henry as the rightful King but on his death the Duke of York should be the King. That seemed to him reasonable and there were a great many who were ready to agree with him.
The weather was bitter. It was not the time of year for fighting. Alas, that was something Warwick could not choose; but if the weather was bad for him it would be equally so for his enemies and this was time for a decisive battle.
It was the twelfth day of February when he rode out of London. He had a worthy army behind him and the good will of the people of the capital. Rumours had reached London as they had other cities of the conduct of hordes of looters and spoilers who made up Margaret’s army and the merchants were terrified that they might invade the city. Their goodwill went with Warwick’s disciplined men and Warwick knew it.
He was full of confidence as he rode north. With him were the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Arundel, Lords Montague and Bonvile, Sir Thomas Kyriell and Captain Lovelace, a gentleman from Kent who had been captured at Wakefield and had managed to escape. This last was an excellent soldier and Warwick put him in charge of some of his best troops.
He had new weapons with which he hoped to strike terror into his enemies. There were firearms which could shoot lead bullets, and something called wildfire which was calculated to strike terror into all who beheld it. It was cloth dipped into an inflammable mixture which was lighted and attached to arrows; when the arrows with the wildfire attached to them were shot into the enemy’s ranks they should cause the worst kind of panic for they would ignite anything they touched.
At St. Albans Warwick called a halt. He had chosen this for the site of the battle. It was at St. Albans that he had on a previous occasion won great success. Looking back he realized that before that famous battle he had been of little account. It was at St. Albans he had proved his worth. St. Albans had brought him good fortune once. It would do so again.
It was always an advantage to choose the battleground, and he was sure he knew which way Margaret was coming and he spread his forces out so that both roads from Luton might be blocked.
She was some way off’ and he had several days’ grace; he would spend them in constructing defences. He was superbly equipped. His bowmen had shields of a kind which had never been used before; they opened while the archers shot their arrows and then closed again; these shields were studded with nails so that if the enemy rushed forward to attack they could be thrown down to trip up men and horses and break their legs. Traps were set across the ground.
Warwick congratulated himself and his friends on their magnificent preparations and assured them that the battle would be over before it had begun.
‘Look to the King,’ he said. ‘He will not wish to be in the thick of the battle but it would be well to guard him. I do not think he will attempt to escape but you, Bonvile, will keep close to him and someone else must join you.’
Sir Thomas Kyriell volunteered to do so and Warwick said that there could not be a better choice.
‘Lovelace, I am putting you in charge of the right flank.’
Lovelace nodded. He hoped he did not show how uneasy he was. He was in a dilemma. His position was not a very happy one. He had not escaped from Wakefield as he had said he had. It was rather different. He had been released on a condition. He had no wish to be a spy. It was not his role at all. He was a soldier. But when faced with torture and horrible death he had had to make a choice.
‘You may return to Warwick’s army,’ he was told. ‘You will
lead his men; but in truth you will be working for us. You will send messages to us as to where his strength and weakness he; you will let us know his plans...’
He wished he had not agreed. He wished he had accepted death and honour. But it was hard on a man.
So here he was in Warwick’s army, enjoying Warwick’s trust. Well hardly enjoying it...wishing with all his might that he had never been captured at Wakefield.
But perhaps he was unduly worried. Warwick was going to win this battle; and if he did, why should he worry about what Margaret and her captains could do to him? After the resounding victory that Warwick would surely achieve there would be nothing to worry about.
Warwick would succeed. He must succeed. He must so completely rout the enemy that Lovelace would never have to worry because he had failed to play a double game.
Henry’s tent had been pitched under a tree and Lord Bonvile and Sir Thomas Kyriell were with him.
‘Never fear,’ Lord Bonvile promised him, ‘we shall not leave you. We shall be beside you while the battle rages.’
‘Battles,’ murmured Henry, ‘I would there need never be more battles. Of what use is this bloodshed? Have I not promised that York shall have the crown on my death? Oh shame on them, shame on them, so to treat the Lord’s anointed.’
‘It is the Queen, my lord, who will not agree to the people’s wishes. She will take the crown for her son.’
The King shook his head and mumbled. Bonvile and Kyriell exchanged glances. It was strange that the King should be ready to pass over his son. Could it really be that Edward was not his child and he knew it? Or was it simply that Henry was ready to make any sacrifice for the sake of peace?
One thing was clear. It was only necessary to look at the King to understand why this war had to be. He was unfit to rule; and when there was a claimant who looked like Edward Longshanks and who acted like him—then clearly that claimant was meant to be King.
Almost as soon as the battle began Warwick realized his mistake. His defences on which he had spent so much time and on which victory depended were useless. Margaret was not coming in by either of the roads he had imagined. She was going to strike his army on the undefended north-west front. This meant that his men would be facing the bitter wind while the enemy would have it at their backs.
