Wars of the Roses: Trinity (War of the Roses Book 2) Read online

  Conn Iggulden

  WARS OF THE ROSES

  Book Two: Trinity

  Contents

  Maps and Family Trees

  List of Characters

  Prologue

  Part One: LATE SUMMER 1454

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Two: 1459

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Also by Conn Iggulden

  THE WARS OF THE ROSES SERIES

  Stormbird

  THE EMPEROR SERIES

  The Gates of Rome

  The Death of Kings

  The Field of Swords

  The Gods of War

  The Blood of Gods

  THE CONQUEROR SERIES

  Wolf of the Plains

  Lords of the Bow

  Bones of the Hills

  Empire of Silver

  Conqueror

  Blackwater

  Quantum of Tweed

  BY CONN IGGULDEN AND HAL IGGULDEN

  The Dangerous Book for Boys

  The Pocket Dangerous Book for Boys: Things to Do

  The Pocket Dangerous Book for Boys: Things to Know

  The Dangerous Book for Boys Yearbook

  BY CONN IGGULDEN AND DAVID IGGULDEN

  The Dangerous Book of Heroes

  BY CONN IGGULDEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY LIZZY DUNCAN

  Tollins: Explosive Tales for Children

  Tollins 2: Dynamite Tales

  To Victoria Hobbs, who tilts at windmills – and knocks them down.

  Maps and Family Trees

  Maps

  England at the time of the Wars of the Roses

  London

  Battle of St Albans

  Family Trees

  Royal Lines of England

  House of Lancaster

  House of York

  House of Neville

  House of Percy

  House of Tudor

  List of Characters

  – Master Allworthy: Royal physician to Henry VI

  – Alphonse: Mute servant to Vicomte Michel Gascault

  – Margaret of Anjou/Queen Margaret: Daughter of René of Anjou, wife of Henry VI

  – James Tuchet, Baron Audley: Veteran soldier and commander of the Queen’s Gallants

  – Saul Bertleman (Bertle): Mentor of Derihew Brewer

  – Derihew (Derry) Brewer: Spymaster of Henry VI

  – Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham: Supporter of Henry VI

  – Carter: Horseman in the retinue of Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

  – Charles VII: King of France, uncle of Henry VI

  – John Clifford, Baron Clifford: Son of Thomas de Clifford

  – Thomas de Clifford, Baron Clifford: Supporter of Henry VI

  – William Crighton, Lord Crighton: Scottish nobleman who arranged the marriage of James II and Mary of Guelders

  – Ralph Cromwell, Baron Cromwell: Chamberlain of the Household to Henry VI

  – Maud Cromwell (née Stanhope): Niece and heiress of Baron Cromwell

  – Sir Robert Dalton: Swordsman and sparring partner of Edward, Earl of March

  – Andrew Douglas: Scottish laird and ally of Henry VI

  – Thomas Percy, Baron Egremont: Son of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland

  – Henry Holland, Duke of Exeter: Son-in-law of Richard, Duke of York

  – John Fauceby: Royal physician to Henry VI

  – William Neville, Lord Fauconberg: Brother of Earl of Salisbury

  – Sir John Fortescue: Chief Justice of the King’s Bench

  – Fowler: Soldier at Battle of St Albans

  – Vicomte Michel Gascault: French ambassador to the English court

  – Sir Howard Gaverick: Bondsman knight in the service of Earl of Warwick

  – Silent Godwin: Franciscan friar

  – Edmund Grey, Baron Grey of Ruthin: Supporter of Henry VI

  – Mary of Guelders: Wife of James II of Scotland

  – William Hatclyf: Royal physician to Henry VI

  – Henry VI: King of England, son of Henry V

  – Hobbs: Sergeant-at-arms, Windsor

  – Squire James: Scout for Henry VI’s army at Battle of St Albans

  – Jameson: Blacksmith and sparring partner of Edward, Earl of March

  – Edward Plantagenet, Earl of March: Son of Richard, Duke of York

  – John Neville: Son of Earl of Salisbury, brother to Warwick

  – John de Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk: Supporter of Henry VI

  – Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland: Head of Percy family and defender of the border with Scotland

  – Eleanor Neville, Countess of Northumberland: Wife of Henry Percy, sister of Earl of Salisbury

  – William Oldhall: Chancellor and supporter of Richard, Duke of York

  – Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke: Half-brother of Henry VI

  – Brother Peter: Franciscan friar

  – Rankin: Manservant to Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

  – Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond: Half-brother of Henry VI

  – Edmund Plantagenet, Earl of Rutland: Son of Richard, Duke of York

  – Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury: Head of Neville family, grandson of John of Gaunt

  – Alice Montacute, Countess of Salisbury: Wife of Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury

  – Thomas de Scales, Baron Scales:Commander of the royal garrison in the Tower of London

  – Michael Scruton: Serjeant-surgeon to Henry VI

  – Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset: Supporter of Henry VI

  – Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset: Son of Edmund Beaufort, supporter of Henry VI

  – William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk: Soldier and courtier who arranged the marriage of Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou

  – Wilfred Tanner: Smuggler and friend of Derry Brewer

  – Sir William Tresham: Speaker of the House of Commons

  – Andrew Trollope: Captain of Earl of Warwick’s Calais garrison

  – Trunning: Swordmaster to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland

  – Owen Tudor: Second husband of Catherine de Valois (widow of Henry V)

  – Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick: Son of Earl of Salisbury, later known as the Kingmaker

  – Edward of Westminster: Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI after marriage of Henry VI to Margaret of Anjou

  – Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York: Head of House of York, great-grandson of Edward III

  – Cecily Neville, Duchess of York: Wife of Richard, Duke of York, granddaughter of John of Gaunt

  Prologue

  Vicomte Michel Gascault was certainly not a spy. He would have scorned the name if he had heard it used of him. Of course it went without saying that the French ambassa
dor to the English court would report anything of interest to his monarch on his return. It was also true that Vicomte Gascault had considerable experience in the royal palaces of Europe as well as the field of war. He knew what King Charles of France might want to know and, with that in mind, Vicomte Gascault took careful note of all that went on around him, little though it was. Spies were grubby, low-born men, given to hiding in doorways and hissing secret passwords at each other. Vicomte Gascault, de l’ autre côté, – ‘on the other hand’, as the English said – was a gentleman of France, as far above such things as the sun above the earth.

  Those and similar thoughts were all he had to amuse him in his idle hours. He was certain to mention to King Charles how he had been ignored for three full days, left to kick his heels in a sumptuous chamber in the Palace of Westminster. The servants sent to attend his person were not even well washed, he had noticed, though they came promptly enough. One of them positively reeked of horse and urine, as if he found his usual employment in the royal stables.

  Still, it was true Gascault’s bodily needs were met, even if his ambassadorial ones were not. Each day began with his own retainers dressing him in the most gorgeous raiments and cloaks he possessed, choosing them from among the garments pressed into the enormous trunks he had brought from France. He had not yet been forced to repeat a combination of colours and if he had overheard one of the English scullions refer to him as the ‘French Peacock’, it bothered him not at all. Bright colours raised his mood and he had precious little else to while away the time. He did not like to think of the food they set out for him. It was clear enough that they had engaged a French cook; equally as clear that the man had no love of his countrymen. Gascault shuddered at the thought of some of the flaccid things that had appeared at his table.

  The hours crept by like a funeral and he had long ago read every scrap of his official papers. By the light of a candle-lamp, he turned at last to a dun-coloured book in his possession, marked throughout with his notes and comments. De Sacra Coena by Berengarius had become a favourite of Gascault’s. The treatise on the Last Supper had been banned by the Church, of course. Any argument that strayed into the mysteries of body and blood brought the attention of Papal hounds.

  Gascault had long been in the habit of seeking out books destined for the fire, to set his thoughts aflame in turn. He rubbed his hands over the wrappings. The original cover had been stripped and burned to ashes, of course, with those ashes carefully crumbled so that no questing hand could ever guess what they had once been. The rough, stained leather was a sad necessity in an age where men took such delight in denouncing each other to their masters.

  The summons, when it came at last, interrupted his reading. Gascault was used to the booming bell that rang each hour and half-hour, startling him from sleep and spoiling his digestion at least as much as the poor pigeons that lay so limply on his dinner platter. He had kept no count but still knew it was late when the horse-servant, as he thought of him, came rushing into the rooms.

  ‘Viscount Gas-cart, you are summoned,’ the boy said.

  Gascault gave no sign of irritation at the way he mangled a proud name. The boy was surely a simpleton and the Good Lord expected mercy for those poor fellows, set among their betters to teach compassion, or so Gascault’s mother had always said. With care, he laid his book on the arm of the chair and rose. His steward, Alphonse, was only a step behind the lad. Gascault let his eyes drift back to the book, knowing it would be enough of a signal for his servant to keep it from other hands in his absence. Alphonse nodded sharply, bowing low while the horse-boy stared in confusion at the dumbshow between the two men.

  Vicomte Gascault strapped on his sword and allowed Alphonse to drape his yellow cloak around his shoulders. When his gaze dropped once more to the chair, the book had somehow vanished. Truly, his servant was the soul of discretion and not simply because he lacked a tongue. Gascault inclined his head in thanks and swept out behind the boy, passing through the outer rooms and into the chilly corridor beyond.

  A party of five men awaited him there. Four of them were evidently soldiers, wearing a royal tabard over mail. The last wore a cloak and tunic over hose, all as thick and well made as his own.

  ‘Vicomte Michel Gascault?’ the man said.

  Gascault noted the perfect pronunciation and smiled.

  ‘I have that honour. I am at your service … ?’

  ‘Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury and lord chancellor. I must apologize for the late hour, but you are expected, my lord, in the royal chambers.’

  Gascault fell easily into step at the man’s side, ignoring the soldiers clattering along in their wake. He had known stranger things than a midnight meeting, in his career.

  ‘To see the king?’ he asked mischievously, watching the earl closely. Salisbury was not a young man, though he seemed wiry and in good health to the Frenchman’s eyes. It would not do to reveal how much the court of France knew of King Henry’s poor health.

  ‘I am sorry to report that His Royal Highness, King Henry, is suffering with an ague, a temporary illness. I hope you will take no offence, but I am to bring you to the Duke of York this evening.’

  ‘My lord Salisbury, I am so very sorry to hear such a thing,’ Gascault replied, letting the words spill out. He saw Salisbury’s eyes tighten just a fraction and had to repress a smile. They both knew there were families in the English court with strong ties to France, whether by blood or titles. The idea that the French king would not know every detail of King Henry’s collapse was a game to be played between them and nothing more. The English king had been near senseless for months, fallen so deeply into a stupor that he could not be raised to life. It was not for nothing that his lords had appointed one of their number as ‘Protector and Defender of the Realm’. Richard, Duke of York, was king in all but name and, in truth, Vicomte Gascault had no interest in meeting a royal lost in his dreaming. He had been sent to judge the strength of the English court and their willingness to defend their interests. Gascault allowed his pleasure to sparkle in his eyes for just an instant before snuffing the emotion. If he reported that they were weak and lost without King Henry, Gascault’s word alone would bring a hundred ships from France, to raid and burn every English port. The English had done the same to France for long enough, he reminded himself. Perhaps it was time at last that the devil had his due of them as well.

  Salisbury led the small group along an endless stretch of corridors, then climbed two flights of stairs to the royal apartments on the floors above. Even at such a late hour, the Palace of Westminster was ablaze with lamps set just a few paces apart. Yet Gascault could smell damp in the air, a reek of ancient mould from having the river so close. As they reached the final, guarded door, he had to control the desire to straighten his cloak and collar one last time. Alphonse would not have let him leave with anything awry.

  The soldiers were dismissed and the door opened by guards within. Salisbury extended his hand to allow the ambassador to enter before him.

  ‘After you, Vicomte,’ he said. His eyes were sharp, Gascault realized, as he bowed and went in. The man missed nothing and he reminded himself to be wary of him. The English were many things: venal, short-tempered, greedy, a whole host of sins. No one had ever called them stupid, however, not in all the history of the world. If God would only make it so! King Charles would have their towns and castles in his grip in just a single generation.

  Salisbury closed the door softly at his back and Vicomte Gascault found himself in a smaller room than he had expected. Perhaps it was only right that a ‘Protector and Defender’ would not allow himself the trappings of a royal court, yet the stillness of that room made a shudder pass down Gascault’s back. The windows were black with the night outside and the man who rose to greet him was dressed in the same colour, almost lost in the shadows of low-burning lamps as he came forward.

  Richard, Duke of York, extended his hand, beckoning Gascault further into the room. The Frenchman felt his ha
ckles stand up in superstitious fear, though he showed no sign of his discomfort. As he stepped forward, he glanced behind, seeing nothing stranger than Salisbury watching him steadily.

  ‘Vicomte Gascault, I am York. It is my pleasure to welcome you and a source of great distress that I must send you home so soon.’

  ‘Milord ?’ Gascault asked in confusion. He sat where York gestured and gathered his wits as the man took a seat across the wide table. The English duke was clean-shaven, square-jawed and yet slim enough in his black. As Gascault stared, York pushed loose hair off his forehead with one hand. He tilted his head as he did so, yet his eyes never left Gascault’s own.

  ‘I’m afraid I do not understand, my lord York. Forgive me, I have not yet learned the correct term of address for a Protector and Defender.’ Gascault looked around for some sign of wine, or food, but there was nothing in sight, just the deep golden oak of the table, stretching bare before him.