The Scots’ army was now in such a state of disarray that its leaders had decided to withdraw to Edinburgh, leaving the road into Scotland open to the English; and at a council of war the following morning, the Duke of Gloucester chose to leave Lord Stanley and part of his troops to reduce Berwick’s citadel by starving out the garrison — now without any hope of being relieved by their fellow countrymen — and to march the rest of the army straight on to the capital.
‘We shall be there by nightfall,’ Albany declared exultantly.
This statement proved to be optimistic. Striking camp and getting an army on the move, even one reduced in numbers, was a protracted task, taking at least a day, but finally I found my self in the saddle once again and moving northwards into a rugged terrain, the like of which was totally alien to me. To begin with, the warm — well, warmish — July weather we had been experiencing for the past few days, gave way to rain and a howling storm. Clouds raced before a screaming wind and were torn to shreds in the teeth of a gale. Occasionally, a pallid sun would peer wanly through the broken rack, but at other times, day became night with thickets and stunted trees looming up briefly, before disappearing once more into the gloom. The rain-wet roofs of distant huts gleamed, corpse-like, then were swallowed again by the mist. Monstrous boughs of oak whipped at our faces. I thought that I had never been in such a God-forsaken place.
The second day, however, was a little better. The weather improved temporarily, and the accommodation which had been commandeered for the night for Gloucester, Albany and their respective households had proved dry and comfortable, if far from luxurious. The shrill whistling of the wind in the roof, like the wailing of lost souls in the upper air, had at first been a deterrent to sleep, but I had been so weary and homesick that nothing could have kept me awake for long. In the morning, while James Petrie brought hot water for his master to wash and shave in, I joined the queue at the outdoor pump and experienced for the first time the snow-broth chill of the crystal-clear water of the north.
A score of other southerners were also cursing its icy numbing of their skin, while they hacked off the night’s stubble as best they could and, like me, cut their chins to pieces. The Scots among us, including Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor, laughed openly at our discomfiture and derided what they were pleased to call our womanish Sassenach ways. But no one was in a mood to challenge them, and I slipped back into the cottage — one of a cluster in some village whose name I have long since forgotten (if I ever knew it) — and ascended the narrow, twisting staircase to the tiny room under the eaves where Albany and I had passed the night, side by side on a lumpy mattress that I strongly suspected was stuffed with turnips.
James Petrie was still there and had been joined by Davey. The serving man was his usual taciturn self, the bushy eyebrows drawn together in their perpetual frown. But the page was saying something to the duke in the Scots tongue, which I still had not mastered sufficiently to understand more than the odd word here and there. I did think, as I reached the half-open door at the head of the stairs, that I made out the words ‘not needful now’, but I wouldn’t have sworn to it. Albany’s reply, however, seemed to confirm that I had understood aright.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ he answered tersely in English, before raising his eyes to see me standing in the doorway. ‘Roger!’ His greeting, I thought, was something over-hearty, as though he might be genuinely pleased to see me, but the peal of derisive laughter which followed it at once put me in my place. ‘Good God, man! What have you done to your face? Your chin looks as if you’ve been suffering death by a thousand cuts, which, they tell me, is a form of punishment dealt out by the Great Cham of Tartary. Is your hand still shaking after all that wine you drank at supper last night?’
I was incensed.
‘I got precious little wine,’ I snapped, ‘not after your lordship had finished with the bottle, and Murdo and Donald had drunk their share.’
This was true. The duke and his squires had been in riotous mood at the prospect of being almost home and at the bloodless victory that seemed to be handing Albany the crown without one further blow being struck. Yet if Albany’s suspicions really were correct, then one of the five Scots surrounding him must now find himself on the horns of a dilemma; whether or not to proceed with his murderous mission for a king now held captive by his own nobles, or to abandon this waning star and throw in his lot with the rising sun. Of course, there was always the consideration that Fortune was a fickle jade and not to be trusted, so maybe both the duke and I had reason to be still on our guard. (I had not totally dismissed the warning of the ‘Green Man’ and continued to be watchful on my own account however much Albany might try to persuade me that it was someone trying to deflect my attention from himself.)
A messenger arrived from one of the other cottages to say that the Duke of Gloucester would be ready to move on in half an hour, and the pleasantries concerning my cut chin were instantly forgotten in the hustle to be ready in time. Trumpets were already sounding in the camp beyond the village, from the sodden tract of open countryside where the poor devils of the main army had spent a miserable night, so we ate a hurried breakfast of oatmeal cakes and honey and drank cold water from an earthenware jar. We were in the saddle almost as soon as my lord of Gloucester himself, and ahead of some of the other nobles, who emerged from their billets looking bleary-eyed and bad-tempered and wishing themselves at home in England amongst their goose-feather mattresses and linen sheets. Furthermore, with the expedition petering out in this unsatisfactory fashion, there would be no glory and, worse still, no money to be made from ransomed prisoners to swell dwindling domestic coffers. Only Albany seemed — understandably — to be in high spirits as we moved forward along what Davey condescendingly informed me was an old Pictish road, in places not much more than a deer track curling, snake-like, beside a bubbling stream. Beyond the rush and spill of water, a pine forest rose, thunderous in the early morning light, and I pitied the foot soldiers as the advance guard hacked its way through scrubland and brakes of gorse.
It occurred to me, as I rode in Albany’s wake, that in all the upheaval of the last two days, I had forgotten that strange little conversation between him and the Duke of Gloucester on that last evening outside Berwick. At least, the strangeness had been all on the latter’s side. What, I wondered, had been in Prince Richard’s mind that he had enquired so closely about the probable fate of Albany’s nephews once Albany was king? In all probability, nothing; and yet I had to own to a totally unjustified feeling of unease in which the memory of King Edward as I had seen him at Fotheringay — a very ill man by the look of things — played a part. I recalled that for a fleeting second I had considered Edward of Rouen not merely sick, but dying. I had then dismissed the notion as he had roused himself to some display of his old vigorous self; but now I recollected the effort he had been forced to make to do so …
I caught myself up short. What was I saying? That Edward, the fourth of that name, was a dying man? That his heir was a twelve-year-old boy who might be king in the very near future? That Prince Richard …?
I took a deep, shaken breath and slammed my mind shut against the half-formed thought. It was an idea not to be entertained for a single moment. This man with whom I shared my birthday I knew to be an honourable, upright man and a loyal friend once a person had won his trust. And in all the vicissitudes of King Edward’s colourful life, Gloucester had been the brother who remained at his side, who had never betrayed him, who loved him with an unwavering devotion. And yet …
And yet — the thought would insist on intruding — it was common knowledge that he hated the Queen’s family with a passion that had only increased since the execution of his brother, George of Clarence. And the Prince of Wales was more Woodville than Plantagenet if the rumours were true.