Son of York by Amy Licence

Author:Amy Licence [Licence, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2017-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN: The Road to War, September, 1459

The Earl of Salisbury surveyed the men massing before him. He estimated there to be several thousand, perhaps a little more, spread across the field and into the lane beyond. They had been marching most of the morning, on their way across the autumnal countryside from Middleham to Ludlow, passing along the hollow ways and stubble fields as workers gathered in the harvest. Once or twice, a tousled head had lifted from its work to watch the men pass; mostly they carried on the gleaning, the threshing and sorting that were part of the ritual year.

For a moment, he had brought them to a halt on the heath between a tall hedge and the River Tern. They were tired and needed to rest. Most of them could do with a good meal too, but they would have to content themselves with cold fare, as this was not the place to be building fires and cooking meat. The air hung heavy with the scent of leaves and the gentle mist that spread across the valley but there was something else that did not quite sit right, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He scanned the horizon, as far as he could see, picking out the distant chimneys of a village, a church spire, the tall points of trees tapering away against the clouds.

A moving speck caught his eye. The scouts were on their way back and the first of them had reached the clump of bushes along the distant ridge. Soon he would know how the land lay. Salisbury had served with York in Normandy and as a warden of the West Marches; over the decades his long, hooked nose had become well tuned to danger. Yesterday, he had narrowly avoided the king’s army as it marched forward to meet him from Coventry. Now, a little over fifty miles separate him from York and Warwick at Ludlow, but he sensed he would not make it without a fight.

Since he had first received York’s letter, at Middleham that summer, he had known this moment was coming. His wife Alice had remained behind on their estate, with their two little granddaughters; they would be sitting down to eat about now, with servants lying out clean white linen cloths. He wiped the sweat from his brow and peered down the road. A figure was hastening towards him and he sensed that its urgency was a portent of serious news.

The messenger leaped off his horse and fell before him, panting on his knees.

‘Come, what news?’

‘The Lancastrians, a huge army, twice our size…’

‘The king’s army?’

‘No, another one, under the command of Baron Audley, they lie not half a mile away, across the brook.’

‘That close? You are certain?’

‘We saw the banners first, through the woods. When we got nearer, there were the men, ranks of them, waiting for the signal to advance.’

‘And where might I see them?’

The man pointed. ‘Along the ridge. They can’t be aware of quite how close we are.

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