wary, lest the Frenchmen take your head.”
“Nonsense,” replied Richard, laughing. His usual gloomy, secretive demeanour had lifted, as it always did at the prospect of action. He wandered away to move among Edward’s household knights as they dismounted in the town square, slapping backs and exchanging hearty jokes with a bluff cheerfulness that would have done credit to Edward himself.
The King kept a close eye on Gloucester’s performance. He was always unnerved by his brother’s sudden changes in mood, and wondered if it hinted at some mental imbalance.
God knows there was enough of that in the family already. One wildly unpredictable brother, in the form of Clarence, was quite enough for Edward to deal with.
The Earl of Arundel had sent messengers tearing up the Great North Road to inform Edward that Lord Howard’s fleet was hopelessly scattered by a storm, and that the rebels in France had put to sea. Their fleet had crossed successfully, and landed on the coast near Exeter. There Warwick immediately raised his standard and declared that he had come to restore Henry VI. The rebels had marched inland, and were said to be approaching Coventry, their numbers swelling with every mile.
Doncaster was too small to billet the entire army, so Edward dispersed his lesser knights and footmen to the outlying villages, with orders to glean what shelter they could. This meant that many unsuspecting villagers and small farmers suddenly found themselves obliged to house and feed large numbers of armed men for the night. A few scuffles broke out as some of the locals resisted the imposition, but were swiftly quelled at swordpoint.
One or two complaints reached the King’s ears as he sat down for dinner with Gloucester, Earl Rivers and the Lords Hastings and Say, but he waved them away.
“I am sorry for putting the locals to inconvenience,” he said, spearing a roasted capon with his dagger, “but war is an inconvenience. I don’t particularly like having to bump my arse in the saddle all the way from London to Ripon and back, just to chase a few hare-brained rebels back into their nests.”
“Comfort,” he mumbled through a mouthful of greasy meat, “give me sweet comfort any day, over the hardships of campaigning.”
“And yet Your Majesty has spent much of his life on campaign,” remarked Hastings, “and now we must fight another battle.”
“It won’t be much of a battle,” Rivers said dismissively, “even if Warwick and Clarence make a stand, which I doubt, neither of them can compare to His Majesty as a soldier.”
Edward hated flattery, and silence fell over the table as Rivers’ compliment died a slow and agonising death. The earl was one of the Woodvilles, Edward’s teeming horde of ambitious in-laws, many of whom he had raised to high office and power in the land. Edward’s nobles, including those seated at table, regarded them as pushy, unpleasant upstarts.
“We will have the advantage of numbers,” said Lord Say, breaking the silence, “especially with Montagu’s troops to aid us.”
Edward glanced out of the window. It was getting dark. Somewhere out there, a few miles to the north, several thousand men under the command of the Marquis of Montagu should be marching to join the royal army at Rotherham.
He could not help feeling anxious. Montagu was one of Warwick’s brothers, but so far had remained loyal to the crown. His reinforcements were crucial. Warwick was said to have already gathered some thirty thousand men, twice as many as Edward had with him. The King had little fear of Warwick’s military ability, but sheer numbers alone could carry the day in a pitched battle.
Dinner proceeded in fits and starts, with stilted attempts at conversation smothered by the general dislike of Rivers and Edward’s irritable mood. A glutton for punishment, Rivers made an ill-advised reference to Towton, and how
“Nonsense,” replied Richard, laughing. His usual gloomy, secretive demeanour had lifted, as it always did at the prospect of action. He wandered away to move among Edward’s household knights as they dismounted in the town square, slapping backs and exchanging hearty jokes with a bluff cheerfulness that would have done credit to Edward himself.
The King kept a close eye on Gloucester’s performance. He was always unnerved by his brother’s sudden changes in mood, and wondered if it hinted at some mental imbalance.
God knows there was enough of that in the family already. One wildly unpredictable brother, in the form of Clarence, was quite enough for Edward to deal with.
The Earl of Arundel had sent messengers tearing up the Great North Road to inform Edward that Lord Howard’s fleet was hopelessly scattered by a storm, and that the rebels in France had put to sea. Their fleet had crossed successfully, and landed on the coast near Exeter. There Warwick immediately raised his standard and declared that he had come to restore Henry VI. The rebels had marched inland, and were said to be approaching Coventry, their numbers swelling with every mile.
Doncaster was too small to billet the entire army, so Edward dispersed his lesser knights and footmen to the outlying villages, with orders to glean what shelter they could. This meant that many unsuspecting villagers and small farmers suddenly found themselves obliged to house and feed large numbers of armed men for the night. A few scuffles broke out as some of the locals resisted the imposition, but were swiftly quelled at swordpoint.
One or two complaints reached the King’s ears as he sat down for dinner with Gloucester, Earl Rivers and the Lords Hastings and Say, but he waved them away.
“I am sorry for putting the locals to inconvenience,” he said, spearing a roasted capon with his dagger, “but war is an inconvenience. I don’t particularly like having to bump my arse in the saddle all the way from London to Ripon and back, just to chase a few hare-brained rebels back into their nests.”
“Comfort,” he mumbled through a mouthful of greasy meat, “give me sweet comfort any day, over the hardships of campaigning.”
“And yet Your Majesty has spent much of his life on campaign,” remarked Hastings, “and now we must fight another battle.”
“It won’t be much of a battle,” Rivers said dismissively, “even if Warwick and Clarence make a stand, which I doubt, neither of them can compare to His Majesty as a soldier.”
Edward hated flattery, and silence fell over the table as Rivers’ compliment died a slow and agonising death. The earl was one of the Woodvilles, Edward’s teeming horde of ambitious in-laws, many of whom he had raised to high office and power in the land. Edward’s nobles, including those seated at table, regarded them as pushy, unpleasant upstarts.
“We will have the advantage of numbers,” said Lord Say, breaking the silence, “especially with Montagu’s troops to aid us.”
Edward glanced out of the window. It was getting dark. Somewhere out there, a few miles to the north, several thousand men under the command of the Marquis of Montagu should be marching to join the royal army at Rotherham.
He could not help feeling anxious. Montagu was one of Warwick’s brothers, but so far had remained loyal to the crown. His reinforcements were crucial. Warwick was said to have already gathered some thirty thousand men, twice as many as Edward had with him. The King had little fear of Warwick’s military ability, but sheer numbers alone could carry the day in a pitched battle.
Dinner proceeded in fits and starts, with stilted attempts at conversation smothered by the general dislike of Rivers and Edward’s irritable mood. A glutton for punishment, Rivers made an ill-advised reference to Towton, and how
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