Chapter 14

"M arie has just told me something I think you should know." Brianna had brought Marie to the queen's chamber the moment the nursemaids took the children away to put them to bed.

Marie hesitated, then blurted out, "The king has ordered my husband to take the army to Cirencester in Gloucestershire."

"Did Pembroke tell you why?" Isabelle asked.

"Because the king is at nearby Gloucester Castle and has chosen Cirencester as a mustering point for the royal forces."

"The king's brothers left this morning with their men-at-arms," Brianna added.

Isabelle was surprised and puzzled. "Does Edward intend to march his army against the Scots?"

Brianna shook her head. "No—Edward's target is the Marcher barons—Mortimer, Hereford, and the others who took their Welsh Borderlands back from the Despencers and forced their exile."

Isabelle's hand fluttered to her throat. "But Edward issued royal pardons for the Marcher barons."

"The king's pardons are not worth the paper they're writ on." Brianna clenched her fists. I warrant Despencer is demanding revenge. The greedy swine must be back…if he ever left.

"Will you excuse me, Isabelle?" Marie implored. "I'd like to spend time with my husband. He leaves at dawn."

When she left, Isabelle turned to Brianna. "I didn't want to say anything to upset Marie, and I pray for Pembroke's safety, but the Mortimers and Lancaster have a pact. They will easily defeat the king's forces, as they always have in a showdown."

"'Tis rumored the ranks of the royal forces are swollen to near thirty thousand. Edward raised them in your name. Men will flock to Cirencester because they prefer him as a warrior king to the weakling he has always shown himself to be."

Isabelle was suddenly filled with anguish. "The people of England will fight for love of me. They have no idea they are being manipulated. I don't want men dying in my name!"

A picture of Wolf and Roger Mortimer flashed into Brianna's mind. "Amen to that, Your Grace."

Warwick, with a troop of two dozen knights, rode into Ludlow. He dismounted and removed his helm to speak with Roger Mortimer. "I heard a rumor the Welsh heathens are raiding again. I thought you might like some help."

"I have help. I recalled your son from Ireland."

"Rickard is here?" Guy de Beauchamp's face lit up.

Warwick's heir emerged from the armory when he heard the clatter of hooves. "Father! Who told you I was here?"

"No one—perhaps I sensed it." The two embraced warmly.

"Tell your men to rest," Roger advised. "We have a foray planned for tonight. Wigmore has been hit twice this past week. Wolf had a vision they were holding our sheep and cattle at Radnor. He rode into Wales under cover of night and confirmed that his sixth sense was right as usual."

"We'll teach them a lesson they won't soon forget," Warwick pledged. "As soon as we've fed and watered our mounts, we'll join you in the hall for some thirst-quenching Ludlow ale."

Rickard accompanied his father into the stables. His sire had aged a good deal since he'd last seen him. "Roger tells me you had the good sense to stay out of the Leeds debacle and advised him to do the same."

"Your sister Brianna is serving as lady to Isabelle. She was with the queen at Leeds and learned it was a deliberate plot. I saw clearly its purpose was to divide the barons. Expedience told me that the Mortimers and I should not involve ourselves."

Rickard put his hand on his father's shoulder. "We are expecting trouble from the king. I hope that expedience once again tells you not to involve yourself."

"I came to fight," Guy de Beauchamp staunchly declared.

"The Welsh, yes…the king, no. It is not your fight."

At dinner that night, Guy de Beauchamp was shocked at Lady Mortimer's appearance. He remembered her when she was a youthful beauty, and he could not believe how her figure had thickened to resemble a barrel. Above a heavy double chin her mouth looked petulant. Warwick was a romantic at heart, and replied with charm when she made cutting remarks, but he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his wife, the great love of his life, was still exquisitely lovely both in face and form.

Guy's glance moved to the table where the two Mortimer daughters, who were still unwed, were sitting. He paid close attention to young Katherine, who had been suggested as a match for his son, Guy Thomas. He was relieved to find no fault with the pretty child. She was obviously innocent and sweet tempered, unlike her mother.

When it was full dark, Warwick and his men joined those of Mortimer and Mortimer of Chirk. Added to the men Rickard had brought from Ireland, they numbered about two hundred and fifty.

Wolf was in the vanguard, unerringly leading the men to the Radnor encampment, through the pitch-dark night. A surprise attack gave the Borderers the advantage over the Welsh, though they were outnumbered two to one. These odds, however, were undaunting since the Marchers had better armor and weapons.

The Welsh were fierce fighters, but their reckless courage often proved detrimental when pitted against the more disciplined English. The tactics they used were calculated. They would fight like demons, then scatter as if fleeing in fear, only to circle back and surround their enemy. This drew their opponents closer to mountainous terrain, giving them the advantage. Once in the mountains, other Welsh tribes joined them.

Mortimer of Chirk had dropped out of the fighting hours before, and Wolf and Edmund Mortimer led his men along with their own. It was dawn before the Welsh raiders were vanquished. The dead and wounded lay strewn over miles of frozen terrain. The Marchers drew rein to allow the Welsh to retrieve their injured, but all at once a warrior inflamed with bloodlust launched himself at Warwick with a battle-ax and unhorsed him. There was a sickening crack as Warwick's head smashed against a boulder, and his helmet was split in half.

Rickard, his heart in his mouth, witnessed the combatants roll on the ground, entwined in a death grip. He bolted from his saddle to aid his father, but before he could reach him, Warwick withdrew his knife from his attacker and staggered to his feet.

"Christ, Father, are you all right?"

Guy put his hand to his helmetless head. "Almost knocked my bloody brains out—what few I have!"

The pair laughed with relief and Warwick whistled for his horse and remounted. "I'm getting too old for this."

The Borderers' work wasn't finished yet. When they got back to the Radnor encampment they had to round up the Mortimer sheep and cattle and drive them back to Ludlow.

Late the next day, two of the scouts Roger Mortimer had sent to keep watch for the royal army rode hell-for-leather into the castle courtyard. Roger, Wolf, and Rickard greeted them warily.

"The king was staying at Gloucester with a negligible number of guards. Early this morning he left and rode to Cirencester. When we followed, we saw Pembroke already there with hundreds of men-at-arms. Hundreds more poured in by the hour. By the time we left, there were thousands, not hundreds."

"Does Hereford know?" Mortimer asked.

"Aye, his scouts saw what we saw."

Rickard spoke with the Mortimers. "I ask that you don't tell Warwick. He'd send for more men, and I want him well out of it."

"Agreed," Roger said grimly. "Unlike Chirk he's still a formidable warrior, but it's not his fight." Mortimer dispatched two messengers to notify Thomas of Lancaster that a large number of his forces was needed in the Marches immediately.

Hugh Audley arrived with his fighting force of two hundred, but he also had his wife and young son with him. "I couldn't leave them alone. I couldn't leave men behind to guard them. I believe Margaret and James will be safer at Ludlow with your daughters."

Mortimer greeted Margaret. "Welcome. We have plenty room at Ludlow." He grimaced. "I should warn you, my wife, Joan, is here, though I wish she had remained in Ireland."

They all went into the castle, and then Audley, Mortimer, his sons, and his lieutenants went to Ludlow's war room to study the maps and plan their strategy.

Rickard went to the bathhouse where his father was soaking his battered body. It wasn't Warwick's aching muscles that troubled Rickard, it was the goose egg on Guy's skull and the blood in the whites of his eyes. Rickard deliberately played down the threat.

"Pembroke has brought an army of a few hundred to Cirencester. Fortunately, Lancaster is on his way with reinforcements."

Warwick nodded. "Thomas has spies everywhere. What if the levies at Cirencester are larger than you anticipate?"

Rickard shrugged. "Then we will negotiate. We're not fools."

Guy de Beauchamp nodded again. "If we do what's expedient, we won't go wrong."

" We ? I want you to return to Warwick. Today. And I want you to lie low. The name of de Beauchamp must not be involved in this treasonous fight with the Crown."

"Last I heard, your name was de Beauchamp."

"None but the Mortimers know I'm here. I'm dark enough to pass as a Mortimer. You on the other hand are recognizable to all."

"True enough. Why are you so adamant to keep me out of it?"

"To preserve Warwick and our other castles. If worse comes to worst in this fight with the king, our landholdings would be confiscated. Leave today, Father. Say hello to Jory and my brother for me. I've no idea when I'll be able to see them."

When Guy de Beauchamp went into the hall he was surprised to see Margaret and her young son. She was the daughter of his late friend Gilbert de Clare and Princess Joanna. Warwick's wife, Jory, had been with Joanna when Margaret was born, and she was her godmother. Warwick embraced Margaret and felt her despair.

"I've told her there is naught to fear." Joan's voice dripped with contempt for Margaret's apprehension. "The king is an inveterate coward. He won't dare come into Marcher country!"

Loath to alarm Joan, Guy chose not to argue with her. He did wish to offer Margaret his protection, however. "I am returning to Warwick today, my dear. Why don't you come with me? Jory would be overjoyed to see you and James."

Joan, jealous of the younger woman's beauty and noble pedigree, urged her to go.

Warwick gallantly extended the same offer to Joan, but she refused with utter disdain.

Rickard de Beauchamp was relieved when his father, accompanied by Margaret Audley and her son, departed before the afternoon light faded. His relief was short-lived, however. When the inhabitants of Ludlow arose the following morning, Rickard found that seventy of the hundred men he had brought from Ireland had melted away in the night and deserted.

"The whoreson cowards!" Roger Mortimer declared. "Once they learned the size of the king's force, their backbones collapsed."

Rickard was both angered and frustrated, and yet he understood the desertions. The men had served in Ireland for four years; now they were home and they'd had a bellyful of fighting. They'd slunk off to their families, and who could blame the poor bastards?

The following day, Hereford's sons, John and Humphrey de Bohun, arrived at Ludlow with two hundred men, which was only half of Hereford's forces.

"Where is your father?" Roger Mortimer asked.

The brothers looked at each other, and their fair skins flushed. "He took a force of men to meet Lancaster. He told us to join our forces with yours. He said you would know enough to remain on our side of the River Severn and keep the enemy from crossing."

"Set up your campaign tents for tonight. We'll leave tomorrow. I'll send word to d'Amory to bring his forces to join with ours." Roger was worried about his Uncle Chirk. He didn't have the stamina to lead men in a campaign.

Wolf spoke up. "Edmund and I will keep our eye on Chirk's men. They'll take orders from us." He waited until the de Bohun brothers left to confer with their men, and then he spoke up. "Hereford hasn't gone to meet Lancaster. In spite of his assurances to bring his great strength to support us, Thomas won't come. Hereford has ridden north to hole up with Lancaster and make a deal with the Scots."

Roger stared grim-faced at Wolf. "Ride swiftly to see if d'Amory has done the same fucking thing."

Wolf Mortimer had ridden less than four miles when he encountered a messenger d'Amory had sent. They returned quickly to Ludlow.

Wolf gave his father the message. "D'Amory has taken his men to Lancaster's castle of Tutbury, hoping to meet him there." Wolf held up his hand to stay his father's curses. "Roger d'Amory didn't desert. He naively believes Lancaster will come to our aid and will soon be at his castle of Tutbury."

"Then he is a misbegotten fool to put his trust in a man with Plantagenet blood!"

Wolf shuddered as if a goose had walked over his grave, or more to the point, d'Amory's grave.

The next day the large Marcher force left Ludlow and rode toward the great River Severn. When it came into view, they turned and rode south. They were about to make camp when a Mortimer scout on a lathered horse caught up with them.

"The king's forces are on the march!"

"They will go to Worcester where they can cross the Severn." Roger countermanded the order to make camp. "We must press on immediately." He turned command over to Edmund, Chirk, Audley, and the de Bohun brothers. "Rickard, Wolf, we must ride full speed and get to the Worcester Bridge before Pembroke!"

The three men covered the twenty miles in two hours. When they got to the bridge that crossed the river and led to Worcester, they dismounted and tethered their horses a safe distance away.

"I warrant we should fire the bridge from both ends." Roger looked directly into Wolf's eyes. "Tell me straight—are you confident you can swim back, or will I do it?"

Without hesitation, Wolf said, "I'll do it—you are indispensable."

Roger and Rickard each lit a torch, while Wolf removed his boots and leather jack. They handed him the pair of blazing torches and Wolf strode across the long bridge in his bare feet.

When he reached the far side, he fired the wooden struts, knowing his father and Rickard would be doing the same at their end. He crouched down on his haunches, waiting to make sure the heavy wood burned through, so the bridge would be totally destroyed.

As Wolf stared into the flames, he had a vision of the royal forces. The horde he saw approaching was so large, he questioned his second sight. He saw the royal banners and those of four earls—Pembroke, Norfolk, Kent, and Arundel—and was convinced his overactive imagination was clouding his true inner vision.

As the acrid stink of burning timber filled his nostrils and the crackle of flames roared in his ears, he suddenly had a vision of a female swathed in a black cloak. She pushed back the hood and her glorious red-gold hair was more brilliant than the flames. Brianna de Beauchamp beckoned to him. Wolf fought the craving to go to her, yet at the same time he had the uncanny feeling that whether he fought his desire or not, he would soon be with her.

A great crack rent the air, the burning bridge crashed down into the river below, and his vision was instantly extinguished. He watched as the raging river, swollen from an early January thaw, carried great sections of the wooden bridge away.

Wolf slid down the steep riverbank, filled his lungs, and plunged. The roiling water closed over his head, his arms thrust upward, and when his face surfaced he had to fight the fierce current that threatened to drag him after the splintered bridge.

He forced his mind to block the icy coldness and focus on his goal. Midway, his powerful strokes lessened and he was carried downstream; then suddenly Brianna was swimming alongside him. The river was no longer the Severn in winter, but the Avon in summer. He knew his towering male pride could not allow her to win the race. With renewed strength, he vigorously kicked and stroked through the water until he neared the riverbank.

Wolf grasped hold of his father's outstretched arm and then he grabbed Rickard's too. They hauled him out and he lay on the ground, his chest heaving, his lungs dragging in cold fresh air.

"Good man," Roger muttered.

The first to arrive were Edmund and Chirk with the Mortimer forces, followed by Audley and his men. Dusk had come early and Wolf stood gazing across the Severn for any sign of the enemy. Once again he envisioned a host of men; an army so large it was almost beyond comprehension.

He moved away from the river and joined the others just as John and Humphrey de Bohun arrived with the Hereford forces.

"As soon as the king's army arrives at Worcester and sees we have destroyed the bridge, they will march double time to the next one. Bridgnorth is a good twenty-five miles from here but we must burn it before they get there. If we wait until morning it could be too late," Wolf insisted.

"The king's army won't match our speed—large numbers of troops are unwieldy. But Wolf is right, we cannot wait until morning. We'll rest until midnight, then move north. Light no fires."

In his father's campaign tent, Wolf stripped off his wet clothes, wrapped his body with a saddle blanket, and fought the apprehension he felt. The fear was for the Mortimer family, not for himself. The king would force a confrontation; it was inevitable. Wolf knew they must hold it off as long as possible.

He conjured a vision of Brianna that was so palpable, he was able to wrap his arms about her and hold her tightly against his body. Her naked flesh warmed him and the smoldering desire she aroused in him turned his blood hot as it surged wildly through his veins. He slid his marble-hard erection to lie along the valley between her thighs and buried his lips in the warm hollow of her throat. Gradually his heartbeat slowed and he drifted in and out of blissful repose as if he had found sanctuary.

Wolf groaned when his father stirred and awoke him. He was wide-awake in seconds and dressed quickly. His clothes were cold and damp, but at least his stockings and boots were dry, as was his leather jack. He sprinted toward the river and his spirits sank as he saw campfires on the far side of it. More were being lit as he watched, telling him the army was only just arriving. In the darkness, perhaps they had no idea the bridge was gone. He sensed the number of men was massive.

Wolf ran back, forcing himself not to panic. "The soldiers are just arriving and setting up camp. Pass the word quietly."

Roger and Rickard were already mounted. "The three of us will ride ahead to Bridgnorth—we'll be there before dawn."

Wolf saddled his horse and rode after his father and Rickard within minutes. He had a short-handled whip that he seldom needed to use. His horse sensed urgency and plunged through the darkness at full gallop. As he rode, he envisioned what had happened to Lady Badlesmere and Edmund's bride, once Leeds Castle had been forced to surrender, and a feeling of dread rose up in him.

When they had ridden seven or eight miles, Wolf realized that they were passing Wigmore, which lay a few miles inland from the Severn. He tried to throw off the dread, but as the trio galloped another four miles, and they were parallel with Ludlow, Wolf felt compelled to draw rein.

"What the hell are you doing?" Roger shouted over his shoulder.

"Keep going! You fire the bridge—I'm for Ludlow!"

Wolf dug in his heels and urged his horse to gallop west. When he got to Ludlow it was still full dark, around three o'clock in the morning. He was out of the saddle and running before his horse came to a stop.

He roused the guards and then the stable hands and ordered them to ready two wagons. He ran inside the castle. "Up! Up! Everyone up!" He ran through the Great Hall and vaulted up the stairs to the adjoining, luxurious chamber block that had been built only two years ago. He threw open the door of the room his young sisters shared. "Katherine, get up and help Joan to dress."

"Wolf, what's amiss?" Katherine cried, jumping from her bed.

"Nothing if you do as I bid you."

The serving women gathered in the corridor, roused by Wolf's alarm. "Quick, pack the girls' clothes. I'm taking them to sanctuary…You can come too, though I doubt you're in danger." His voice deepened. "Christ, don't stand there gaping— move !"

Wolf ran back to the other end of the Great Hall to where the solar palace had been built. He entered his mother's chamber and ordered her out of bed.

"What the hellfire are you about?" she demanded.

He swept the blankets from her. "Get up and pack your things. Anything of value. I'm taking you to sanctuary."

"Go to the devil, you arrogant young lout! You're just like your father," she hissed.

"I'm taking the girls and you to sanctuary with the nuns at Wigmore Abbey. Get dressed!" he commanded.

"Put me in a nunnery ? Piss off! Ludlow is mine and none will take it from me!"

Wolf remembered the whip he was clutching. He uncoiled it and lashed it at his mother's ankles. When it cracked, Joan screamed and jumped away. " Obey , or suffer the consequences." He raised the whip again with every intention of using it.

Joan knew better than to defy a Mortimer in this deadly mood. She immediately capitulated.