All my senses leaped into nervous life when there came the distant clatter of a disturbance at the main gate which provided access into the town. I had already cast aside the book by the time a servant, who had been given instruction to keep me abreast of all events, no matter how trivial they might seem, tapped on my door. I dragged a heavy robe over my shift to follow him down the stairs. If it was an opportunistic attack from the royal army I would trust our watchmen to keep the barbican gate closed. But how had a hostile force managed to circumvent Richard’s careful defences and reach the centre of Ludlow? Forcing myself not to run, I climbed to the vantage point at the top of the old gatehouse keep, pulling up my hood over my braided hair.
My throat was dry with fear.
What I saw made my heart thud in a heavy beat, for the barbican gate was already open, distant figures moving in the outer bailey, our guards offering no resistance to these incomers with their escort. There were no banners, no visible heraldic symbols to indicate who they might be.
The beat of my heart thudded loudly in my ears.
A small group, tight-knit, rode across the expanse towards the inner gateway below me. I leaned forward, my fingers curled hard around the coping stones. But then my heart slowed at what I saw. I remained where I was, as they rode beneath me into the inner bailey. I knew exactly who my late-night visitors were in spite of dark enveloping cloaks.
By the time I had descended they had all dismounted, allowing me to pick out a quintet of strained faces as hoods were pushed back or helms removed. A potent mix of Nevilles and Plantagenets. My brother Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, my nephew, another Richard, Earl of Warwick. My sons Edward and Edmund. And Richard, my Richard, Duke of York. Already in urgent and low-voiced conversation, before I could even ask what was happening, Richard left the group, took my arm and pulled me into the guards’ antechamber, dispatching its only occupant with a tilt of his chin.
‘What’s happened?’
My fingers dug into the cloth of his cloak as they had dug into the stone revetment. I could read nothing in his face in the light of the single torch.
‘Disaster.’ His voice was a croak.
‘Why are you all here? Has there been a battle?’
For if it was a disaster, where was the rest of the army? We had heard no noise of conflict or conflagration. For the first time I noted the groove between Richard’s dark brows as he leaned close, his voice low. This was not meant to be overheard.
‘A pardon came, apparently from the King, if we would lay down our arms, a pardon I thought not to be trusted. It had the imprint of Somerset all over it. Or perhaps the Queen, to lure us into surrender and so into a trap. But Andrew Trollope, God damn his soul to hell, the man in command of Warwick’s main force from the Calais garrison, accepted it, declaiming to his troops that he had never wanted to fight the King in person.’
‘Could he not be persuaded?’
We were both whispering. Whatever had occurred was worse than I could imagine, nor should it be spread abroad.
‘He gave me no chance. The last we saw of Trollope was a retreating cloud of dust, taking his men with him. I took the only decision I thought left to us. I sent a letter to the King, asking for a parley. The reply came back, almost immediately, that he would not. He would do his negotiating with arms and battle in the field.’
‘Did he write it? It doesn’t sound like Henry. Marguerite perhaps.’
‘Who’s to know?’ For a moment he sounded so weary. ‘It will be a battle and without Trollope’s men we are lost. There will be no mercy. I misjudged it, Cis. How could I misjudge it so badly?’ Richard rubbed his gloved hands over his face as if to clear his vision. ‘Henry looked every inch a warrior, standing proudly tricked out in armour under his royal banner. Even his thinning hair managed to gleam in a kingly fashion beneath his crown. Our troops were weak at the knee at the sight. And there it is. We daren’t risk a battle. They’ll all go over to him as their King within seconds of a Lancastrian call to arms.’
I could see defeat, engraved deep in the lines from nose to mouth. His familiar features had become a bleak map of failure.
‘What will you do?’ I knew without asking, but dreaded the reply.
‘We have no choices left. It must be flight.’
I could not hide the horror in my face. ‘You have abandoned your men?’
This was no time for my censure. Many would say it was not the place of a woman to express disparagement, for what developed on a battlefield was man’s work. But this was a step beyond treason against the King. For the puissant Duke of York to abandon his troops was anathema. These were our men, our tenants, our soldiery, born and bred in loyalty to their Plantagenet lord.
‘Have you disbanded them and sent them home?’ I persisted.
I could almost see his face flush in the shadows, but his voice was edged with his own righteousness, his own belief in what must be. ‘No. I have not. We need time, and to disband the army would give Henry freedom of action to pursue us here to the gate of our castle. The army remains in place until tomorrow. I have told our officers that we have retired here for the night, and that we will return at dawn. The Lancastrians will see nothing amiss until we have gone.’
‘Richard…’ I did not like it. I did not like it at all, but could think of nothing to say. He had made the decision.
He sensed the tenor of my silence, as he would after more than thirty years of marriage, through good times and worse. ‘I know. It’s bad, but we must redeem what we can from a desperate situation. Henry will not wage war on common soldiers. It’s us he wants. If we stay we will be taken prisoner, if not killed outright. That will be the end of our cause.’
I thought that he was trying to convince himself that our men would not be obliterated by his decision to escape. I held his hands, willing him to tell me that flight was not the only possibility, but I knew, as clearly as he, that they must get out of England before the royal hounds were slavering at their heels.
‘We’ll go in different directions,’ he was explaining, already planning, while I had moved no further than the despair that he would leave me. ‘I’ll take Edmund with me into Wales and from the coast we’ll take ship to Ireland where I know I’ll be welcomed. My years as King’s Lieutenant in Ireland will stand me in good stead. I’ll make my base in Dublin.’
How confident he was, or at least sounded – possibly for my sake – that this journey would not entrap him into the hands of his enemies.
‘Salisbury and Warwick will go south and they have agreed to take Edward with them. When they reach the coast, they’ll take ship and join us in Dublin or make for Calais. Either move will be safe. With the boys travelling separately, there is at least the chance that one of them will survive to continue to lead the House of York.’
My family stripped from me in this one momentous decision, in which I had had no voice at all. I had considered the outcome of battle. I had not accepted that I might be abandoned to face the Lancastrians alone.
‘When do you go?’ I asked, my voice steady.
‘I can’t stay any longer than this hour.’ He was as calm as I in the circumstances. ‘We must go immediately before anyone can raise any sort of alarm.’
‘I understand.’