it starving, not after the sickness.’
‘What about staying in the barn?’ Rowan asked, looking back fearfully to the dark doorway.
‘Not with the bodies of soldiers and blood on the ground, son. Wake up! We’ll need to move a few miles in cover and my stomach is hurting something terrible. I need a little food and I’m not eating a Frenchman, not today anyway.’
Rowan chuckled weakly, but his eyes were still troubled. Thomas gave up on his smile, which was taking too much out of him to maintain.
‘What is it?’ He saw his son’s skin twitch like a horse beset with flies, then roughen as the hairs stood up.
‘The one in the barn … his … manhood was stiff … God, Dad, it was horrible.’
‘Ah,’ Thomas replied. He stood there, letting the sun warm them both. ‘Perhaps he liked you?’
‘Dad! Jesus!’ Rowan shivered in memory, rubbing his arms. His father laughed.
‘I had to keep watch once, after a battle,’ he said. ‘I was about twelve years old, I think. I sat all night, surrounded by dead soldiers. After a while, I heard them start to belch and fart like living men. Twice, one of them sat up, just jerked right up like a man surprised by a thought. Sudden death is a strange thing, sunshine. The body doesn’t always know it’s dead, not at first. I’ve seen … what you saw on a hanged man before, when I was a boy. There was some old woman at the gibbet when everyone else had gone, scratching the ground by his feet. I asked her what she was doing and she said a mandrake root grows from the seed of a hanged man. I ran then, Rowan, I don’t mind telling you. I ran all the way home.’
Both men grew still as a rustling sound carried to them on the still air. They turned slowly to see an elderly goose come out of the trees by the cottage, where a rope swing hung from a branch. The bird pecked the ground and peered at the two men standing in its yard.
‘Rowan?’ Thomas murmured. ‘If you can see a stone, move slowly and pick it up. Try to break a wing.’
The goose ignored them as Rowan found a rock the size of his fist and hefted it.
‘It’s not afraid of us, I think,’ he said, walking towards the bird. It started to hiss, spreading its wings. The stone flew out, knocking the bird over with a squawk and revealing a matted underside of feathers and dirt. Rowan had it by the neck in a moment and dragged the flapping, protesting bird back to his father before silencing it with a sharp tug.
‘You may just have saved my life again this morning,’ Thomas said. ‘We can’t risk a fire, so cut it and drink while it’s warm. Well done, lad. I think I’d have wept like a child if she’d got away from us.’
His son smiled, beginning to feel his strange, fey mood pass. He took care to wipe his knife on the man lying face down in the yard before he used it on the bird.
‘I only wish your grandfather could be here,’ York said, sipping at his wine. ‘The old man took such joy in the birth of children — as you might expect, with twenty-two of his own! Still, the omens are excellent, I’ve been told. A boy, surely.’
He stood in an internal courtyard, roofed in oak and tile, with cream-coloured stone on all sides. The white rose of the house of York was much in evidence, as a painted crest on the beams or carved into the stone itself. In the rooms above his head, an unearthly cry rang out, making his companion wince.
Richard Neville was as tall as his uncle, though he had yet to grow a beard. Through two marriages, it was true his grandfather had sired so many that Richard was used to aunts who were children, or nephews of his own age. The elder Neville had been a potent man and the number of his living descendants was a source of envy to many.
Before Richard could reply, York spoke again.
‘But I am forgetting! I must congratulate you on your new title, well won. Your father must surely be pleased to see you made Earl of Warwick.’
‘You are too kind, my lord. I am still learning what it entails. My father is delighted to have the title and the lands come to the family, as I think you know. I’m afraid I never knew my grandfather.’
York chuckled, draining his cup and raising it for a servant to refill.
‘If you are half the man Ralph Neville was, you will still be twice blessed. He raised me when ill fortune made me an orphan, at the mercy of all men. Old Neville kept my estates and titles intact until I was grown. He asked for nothing in return, though I knew he wanted me to marry Cecily. Even then, he left the final choice to me. He was … a man of great personal honour. I have no higher praise than that. I just hope you understand. I owe him more than I could ever say, Richard, no — Earl Warwick!’
York smiled at his nephew. Another screech came from the birthing room, making both men wince.
‘You are not worried?’ Richard of Warwick said, fiddling with his goblet and looking up as if he could see through the walls to the feminine mysteries within that chamber.
York made an elaborate shrug.
‘Five dead true, but six alive! If I were a gambling man, I would not bet against another healthy York boy. The twelfth birth is the number of apostles, so my learned doctor is fond of saying. He believes it is a powerful number.’
York fell silent then, considering for a moment that the twelfth apostle had been Judas. The younger man’s eyes were shadowed as he had the same thought, but chose not to voice it.
‘The seventh alive, then,’ Warwick said to break the silence. ‘A number of great fortune, I’m certain.’
York relaxed visibly as he spoke. He had been drinking heavily during the confinement, for all his semblance of being unworried. He called for the cups to be refilled once more and Warwick had to drain his own quickly, feeling the wine heat his blood. It was necessary, he’d found. Fotheringhay Castle may have been well fortified, but even in the shelter of the covered courtyard it was very cold. A fire burned in a nearby hearth, ready to consume the newborn’s caul and birth cord. The warmth seemed to disappear before it could reach the men waiting.
‘I am not sure, my lord, if I should congratulate you in turn,’ Warwick said. York looked at him with a questioning air as he went on. ‘On Ireland, my lord. My father tells me you have been appointed king’s lieutenant there.’
York waved dismissively.
‘I have enemies who would prefer me to be far away from England for the next few years, Richard. I will go where I am sent — eventually! For the moment, I am content to remain, as they climb over each other like drowning rats. I have taken my seat with the Lords Temporal more than once, just to watch and listen. I recommend you do the same, to see what fools scramble and bluster in London.’ He considered his words before continuing. ‘For those with an eye to see, this will be a year of storms, Richard. Those who survive it, well, they can only rise.’
‘My lord York!’ a voice called.
Both men leaned back to look up to the small walkway overhead, separated by a generation but joined in concern for Cecily Neville and the child. As they waited, wine forgotten in their hands, a midwife came out through thick curtains, using a cloth to wipe any remaining traces of blood from the face of a baby. The infant was tight- wrapped in swaddling bands of dark blue. It did not cry as she held it out for the father and young uncle to see.
‘It is a boy, my lord, a son,’ she said.
York breathed out through his nose, utterly delighted.
‘Have you a name for the child?’ Warwick asked, smiling. He could see the pride in Richard of York. For once, the man was almost boyish in his pleasure.
‘I have a ten-year-old named Edward, one named Edmund and a sweet little lad named George. I won’t risk offending the poor souls who perished, so not Henry, John, William or Thomas. No. I think … Yes, I think this one will be Richard.’
Richard, Earl of Warwick, barked a laugh of surprise and honest pleasure.
‘Three Richards then, between us. Richard like the Lionheart king. No, three lions, my lord! A fine omen.’
York looked a little taken aback as he followed the path taken by Warwick’s quick mind. Two centuries before, King Richard the Lionheart had adopted three lions as his royal seal. More recently, that royal emblem had been carried at Agincourt, by the house of Lancaster and the father of King Henry. It was an association that did not fill York with joy.
