Revenge by David Pilling Read Free Book Online Page B

in the fighting at St Albans, five years ago. Can you not even remember the names of those who have died in your service?”
    He thought for a moment, staring blankly at the wall. Half-suppressed memories of men fighting and dying flickered through his mind, making him shudder. He was a gentle man, and could not abide the sight of blood.
    His own blood had been shed at St Alban’s, the first of the armed clashes between Lancaster and York. Henry had insisted on wearing no armour, and an arrow had sliced into his neck as he sat under a tree in the market square, patiently awaiting the battle’s outcome. The wound had healed well enough, but he still felt a sharp ache in his neck on cold nights.
    “Yes,” he said, “I remember now. Edmund was my friend. The traitors butchered him when he tried to take refuge inside an inn. I was very angry. Wasn’t I?”
    Margaret crossed to a table beside the fire and poured wine into a goblet from an elegantly fluted jug. “You were furious,” she said, taking a long drink, “and swore never to forgive York, Warwick and Salisbury for their crimes. Yet they still live, and plot fresh treasons against you. Young Lord Audley has defected to them.”
    She drew in a long, shuddering breath, and with a sudden oath hurled her goblet into the fireplace. “Defected!” she screamed, her mood changed in an instant, “and thrown in his lot with the same traitors that killed his father at Blore Heath! What manner of people are you English, who can turn your coats so easily, and enter into conspiracies with those who murder your own kin?”
    The flash of rage died away into a choking sob. Now it was Margaret’s turn to hide her face in her hands. Feeling that he ought to comfort her, Henry rose and tried to put his arms about his wife’s shoulders. She roughly pushed him away.
    “I don’t want your soothing words and embraces,” she hissed, baring her teeth at him. “What good are they? I want a King and a husband who acts, instead of spending half his days weeping and staring at the wall, and the other half on his knees in prayer. Audley would never have dared to betray your father. You must deal with these vermin, Henry. Smoke them out; destroy them!”
    Henry, staggered back a few paces and threw up his hands. “I cannot smoke anyone out in Calais from Westminster,” he said helplessly. “And as for my father, he had a gift for inspiring respect. I don’t. People pity me, nothing more.”
    His wife stared at him with loathing and contempt. He tensed, expecting a blow. It would not be the first time Margaret had struck him.
    Instead she turned away and took another drink of wine, straight from the jug. “I will send word to Buckingham,” she said, wiping the spillage from her chin with the back of her hand, “and order him to muster our forces near Coventry.”
    “Coventry?” Henry echoed, looking puzzled. “Why Coventry? If Warwick sails he will surely try to land on the south coast. We should order Buckingham to muster at Sandwich.”
    “You forget, my husband, as you forget most things,” she replied, “Warwick is still wildly popular in Kent and London, and the darling of the merchants. If he gets past our fleet and succeeds in landing troops on the mainland, the people will flock to join him. That will leave us isolated in the middle of hostile territory. The Midlands, however, are a different matter. They love us there.”
    “That’s true,” Henry said, nodding happily, “I recall our last progress. The people lined the roads and shouted ‘Long Live the King!’ They cheered our son. He was very young then.”
    “Which is why we must make ready to withdraw to Coventry,” Margaret said. “So we are prepared to face Warwick, if and when he lands.”
    Henry made an effort to concentrate. “What of York?” he asked. “He is in Ireland, I think. Yes, Ireland. What if he invades at the same time Warwick lands?”
    “He won’t,” Margaret said airily. “The