the Tower. His Majesty is still in the north, but has sent word for all loyal Englishmen to take up arms and join him at Nottingham.”
Geoffrey’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He cudgelled his brains for an excuse to remain in Staffordshire.
Kate had gone to live with her new husband, though she had to be physically dragged by Ramage’s servants from the house she had known all her life. Malvern Hall had been blissfully peaceful since her departure.
Geoffrey was reluctant to leave the comfort of his country seat, and even more reluctant to risk his life in battle. He had survived the slaughters at Northampton, Saint Albans and Towton, thanks to his talent for hiding and skulking in the rear, but knew that his good fortune couldn’t last forever. At some point he would have to live up to his undeserved martial reputation and fight in the front line. The mere thought of risking his precious carcase in a fight made him shiver.
The herald was looking at him expectantly. “I will, of course, gather my retainers without delay,” said Geoffrey, hating every word, “though it may take some time. They are scattered about the county. Some may be reluctant to take up arms again, so soon after the last rebellion.”
“There is no time for delay or malingering,” said the herald, clearly unimpressed, “the rebels may have already landed. His Majesty desires to engage and crush them before they can gather support.”
“If your men are not ready to start for Nottingham by tomorrow morning,” he added before Geoffrey could gamely improvise more excuses, “then you must go alone, and leave orders for them to follow. Time presses, Sir Geoffrey. The fate of England hangs in the balance.”
“Again,” Geoffrey replied with as much venom as he dared. He eyed the herald with the same loathing he reserved for the Boltons, but there was no help for it. A direct order from the king had to be obeyed, if he valued his skin.
Geoffrey valued his skin very highly indeed, and so the next morning saw him ride out to war.
Chapter 8
The royal army force-marched south from Ripon, raising great clouds of dust as the long, straggling lines of footmen struggled to keep up with the mounted knights and men-at-arms. The baggage wagons and artillery train creaked along haplessly in the rear, left to catch up as best they may.
Speed, as King Edward well appreciated, was of the essence. He had lingered too long in the north, puzzling over the causes of Fitzhugh and Salkard’s short-lived rebellion. His brother Gloucester was right after all: the rebellion had been a distraction, a mere ploy to draw Edward’s army north and keep it there while Warwick and Clarence launched their invasion from France.
Edward was furious with himself for being so easily duped, and took his fury out on everyone around him. He lashed the flanks of his labouring destrier and remounts until they bled, and barked out curt orders to his captains, mingled with vivid threats and curses. Every man learned to quail when his eye alighted on them, and performed his duty with an efficiency born of fear.
Every man, save Gloucester. The slight figure of his brother galloped at the head of the royal vanguard with little sign of fatigue. Disappointed by the easy victory in the north, he seemed fiercely keen to get to grips with Warwick and his host of traitors, mercenaries and exiles.
“I will bag myself a score of Frenchmen,” Gloucester announced when the army poured into Doncaster, where the King ordered a halt for the night, “and hang nineteen of their heads from my saddle-bow. The last I shall send to our lady mother inside a jewelled box, with my compliments.”
“Our lady mother will not appreciate the gift,” panted Edward, mopping his streaming face and accepting a drink from his squire, “nor will she appreciate her youngest son behaving like some pagan savage. Be
Geoffrey’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He cudgelled his brains for an excuse to remain in Staffordshire.
Kate had gone to live with her new husband, though she had to be physically dragged by Ramage’s servants from the house she had known all her life. Malvern Hall had been blissfully peaceful since her departure.
Geoffrey was reluctant to leave the comfort of his country seat, and even more reluctant to risk his life in battle. He had survived the slaughters at Northampton, Saint Albans and Towton, thanks to his talent for hiding and skulking in the rear, but knew that his good fortune couldn’t last forever. At some point he would have to live up to his undeserved martial reputation and fight in the front line. The mere thought of risking his precious carcase in a fight made him shiver.
The herald was looking at him expectantly. “I will, of course, gather my retainers without delay,” said Geoffrey, hating every word, “though it may take some time. They are scattered about the county. Some may be reluctant to take up arms again, so soon after the last rebellion.”
“There is no time for delay or malingering,” said the herald, clearly unimpressed, “the rebels may have already landed. His Majesty desires to engage and crush them before they can gather support.”
“If your men are not ready to start for Nottingham by tomorrow morning,” he added before Geoffrey could gamely improvise more excuses, “then you must go alone, and leave orders for them to follow. Time presses, Sir Geoffrey. The fate of England hangs in the balance.”
“Again,” Geoffrey replied with as much venom as he dared. He eyed the herald with the same loathing he reserved for the Boltons, but there was no help for it. A direct order from the king had to be obeyed, if he valued his skin.
Geoffrey valued his skin very highly indeed, and so the next morning saw him ride out to war.
Chapter 8
The royal army force-marched south from Ripon, raising great clouds of dust as the long, straggling lines of footmen struggled to keep up with the mounted knights and men-at-arms. The baggage wagons and artillery train creaked along haplessly in the rear, left to catch up as best they may.
Speed, as King Edward well appreciated, was of the essence. He had lingered too long in the north, puzzling over the causes of Fitzhugh and Salkard’s short-lived rebellion. His brother Gloucester was right after all: the rebellion had been a distraction, a mere ploy to draw Edward’s army north and keep it there while Warwick and Clarence launched their invasion from France.
Edward was furious with himself for being so easily duped, and took his fury out on everyone around him. He lashed the flanks of his labouring destrier and remounts until they bled, and barked out curt orders to his captains, mingled with vivid threats and curses. Every man learned to quail when his eye alighted on them, and performed his duty with an efficiency born of fear.
Every man, save Gloucester. The slight figure of his brother galloped at the head of the royal vanguard with little sign of fatigue. Disappointed by the easy victory in the north, he seemed fiercely keen to get to grips with Warwick and his host of traitors, mercenaries and exiles.
“I will bag myself a score of Frenchmen,” Gloucester announced when the army poured into Doncaster, where the King ordered a halt for the night, “and hang nineteen of their heads from my saddle-bow. The last I shall send to our lady mother inside a jewelled box, with my compliments.”
“Our lady mother will not appreciate the gift,” panted Edward, mopping his streaming face and accepting a drink from his squire, “nor will she appreciate her youngest son behaving like some pagan savage. Be
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