Chapter Sixteen
Outside of Wakefield, Yorkshire
“We have no way of knowing how they knew we were in Manchester,” Matthew said.
“All we know is that we were overrun with troops bearing the standards of Saxilby and Fitzalan, the same bastards who had laid siege to Babylon the week before. This time, however, they were heavily reinforced with garrison troops. Someone said they were from Conisbrough. We could see Edward’s colors everywhere. ”
Warwick had one of the more comfortable encampments when traveling, with big tents and creature comforts to suit him.
Even now, as Wellesbourne and de Russe stood exhausted and beaten before him, Warwick was quite comfortable with his blazing brazier and piles of furs.
He sat at his portable desk, the one he always traveled with, listening to a harrowing and disheartening tale.
His gaze upon Wellesbourne and de Russe was not one of pleasantness.
“So you ran,” he said flatly. “You left le Bec behind.”
De Russe, displeased at having his courage questioned, spoke.
“It was not a matter of running, I assure you,” he said, his voice low and rumbling.
“We had been fighting for a week and our men were exhausted. Edward’s supporters rolled into the south side of town and began taking back the town one street at a time.
We moved to meet them and we met them strongly, but they were fresh and we were not.
The last I saw of le Bec, he rode straight into a particularly bad skirmish and was unseated.
We tried to get to him but we were driven back.
We were very nearly captured ourselves. With le Bec down and the men scattering, we gathered what troops we could and headed back to Babylon to gain what reinforcements that we could, but Babylon was under attack as well.
It would have been foolish to try and engage whoever was after Babylon with our meager numbers.
That being the case, we came straight to you to inform you what has happened. ”
Warwick was glaring up at the big knight. He knew de Russe wasn’t a coward and he knew the same about Wellesbourne. Still, he was upset with the loss of Babylon. He’d heard the story twice now, once from Wellesbourne and now from de Russe, but he was still disheartened and angry.
“Manchester was hit when le Bec had secured it and Babylon was hit simultaneously,” he muttered, rolling the facts over in his mind as he tried to make some sense of them.
Then, he began to shake his head, wagging it back and forth.
“God’s Bones, this stress is more than I can bear right now.
I have enough on my mind. I’ve received word that Edward’s armies are sailing up from Calais, north along the English coast, headed for Yorkshire.
He will be here any day but now I must deal with the failure of Manchester and the loss of Babylon. ”
De Russe still wasn’t over the fact that Warwick intimated he was a coward. “The loss of both Manchester and Babylon was not expected, I assure you,” he said. “It is my opinion that it was not a coincidence.”
Warwick’s head snapped to him. “Of course it cannot be a coincidence,” he spat. “If it was the garrison at Conisbrough, someone must have notified them that le Bec was at Manchester and that Babylon was without protection. Someone must have told them where to go.”
Wellesbourne and de Russe glanced at each other; they had already come to that conclusion, discussing it ever since they had fled Babylon for Wakefield.
They had ridden hard with almost four hundred men, a far cry from the nearly one thousand that Kenton had taken with him into Manchester.
The fact that they had so few men with them spoke to the viciousness of the second battle with the fresh troops and it spoke to the fact that, because Kenton’s men were weary, they were more easily fragmented.
God only knew how many men were really left and how many had simply fled.
“It had to be a traitor inside of Babylon who knew of our plans,” Wellesbourne finally said. “It had to be someone close, someone in the inner circle. We did not even tell the men until we were clear of Babylon where we were going. We kept those plans secret as long as we could.”
Warwick scratched at his graying head. “Who knew of your plans, Matthew?” he demanded, standing up wearily from his table. “Le Bec? You? De Russe? Le Mon? Forbes? De Birmingham? Who else?”
De Russe had run through that list, too, and spoke before Wellesbourne could.
“It would not be de Birmingham,” he said.
“He was left in charge of Babylon with our departure. Why sabotage his own command? It was not me or Matt, and it certainly wasn’t le Bec or Forbes or le Mon.
They are seasoned men, loyal to Henry to the core.
That information did not come from any of us in command. ”
Warwick looked at the big knight. “Then who?” he asked, throwing up his hands for emphasis, “for someone sent word to Conisbrough if they were, in fact, the ones who moved on Manchester and Babylon. I cannot imagine who else it would be and Conisbrough is the closest. The entire two-pronged operation was too well planned of an attack for it to be coincidence. Surely you see that!”
He was growing agitated and de Russe simply turned away from him, weary and brittle, while Wellesbourne replied.
“Of course we do, my lord,” he assured Warwick.
“We were in the thick of things. The attack on Manchester, and also Babylon, was well planned. When last we saw Babylon, there did not seem to be an overabundance of men but it seemed to me that she was breached at that point. We did not see any real battle lines, there were simply men crawling all over the place and it’s my sense that the gatehouse was compromised. ”
Warwick rolled his eyes. “Perfect,” he snarled wryly. “Babylon is back in Edward’s control. I have lost Manchester and I have lost le Bec. What more is there for me?”
De Russe and Wellesbourne looked at each other, with much on their mind, before looking to Warwick.
“We thought you would want to regain Babylon,” Wellesbourne suggested.
“Gaston and I have discussed it. We will return with your army to retake it. As for le Bec, if he was not killed when he was unseated, then I would presume he is a prisoner of the army who retook Manchester. The only way to know is to send word to Conisbrough and ask. Men were saying it was Conisbrough’s garrison that fought against us so that seems to be the logical place to start. ”
“Did you see other standards flying?” Warwick asked.
Wellesbourne nodded. “The red and yellow bird of Saxilby and I thought I saw Fitzalan.”
Warwick eyed the two knights. It was clear that his mind was processing the situation and what to do about it, mostly because warfare and power was all Warwick ever thought of.
It was the way his mind worked. He was never at rest and this most recent setback was just that – a setback.
Wellesbourne and de Russe were quite certain, given Warwick’s objectives, that the loss of Babylon was only temporary.
Le Bec, however, was another matter. They didn’t know where he was, or whether he was dead or alive, and Warwick was greatly troubled by that.
They also knew that Warwick would not walk away from Kenton or leave him to rot, not when Kenton’s might meant so much to him.
Warwick depended on him too much so the loss of le Bec at this point was even greater than the loss of Babylon.
After several long moments of deliberation, Warwick returned to his seat before his leaning desk, one that had a broken leg that had never been fixed correctly.
He had Wellesbourne call forth his advisors, men who were lingering outside where they had come to rest when Warwick had chased them out in preparation for Wellesbourne and de Russe’s report of the fall of Manchester.
Warwick had been unwilling to let his advisors hear of a failure, at least not until he had all of the information.
Now, he thought he had what he needed, enough to bring it up to the men who surrounded him like courtiers.
Men who had fought and lived with Warwick for many years.
When the group of them, five in all, re-entered the tent, Warwick fixed on one man in particular, older, with thin gray hair.
Even from a distance, the old man smelled like compost.
“Lord Pollard,” he said to the smelly man. “It would seem that Manchester and Babylon have been recaptured by those loyal to Edward. Rumor has it that the army came from Conisbrough Castle. What do you know of the garrison and its commanders?”
In spite of his smelly nature, Lord Hugo Pollard was from a very old family and was a man who knew anything worth knowing.
He had an infallible memory and although he wasn’t much of a military advisor, Warwick kept him around because the man, literally, knew everything about England and its nobility.
It was difficult to do without such a man.
When Warwick asked the question, Lord Pollard cocked his head thoughtfully.
“Conisbrough is Edward’s property,” he said. “The last I heard, a man named St. John was the garrison commander.”
“Where is he from?”
“North in Cumbria, I believe. You have heard of Eden Castle?”
“I have.”
“That is his family, I believe.”
Warwick contemplated the information. “Is he married?”
Lord Pollard shook his head. “I do not know,” he replied. “But I believe he has a sister who, if memory serves, is a companion to Lady Anne Holland.”
Warwick’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “The Duke of Exeter’s wife?”
“The same.”
Warwick’s eyes narrowed with both doubt and possibilities. “Are you certain of this?”
Lord Pollard shrugged. “There is but one way to find out,” he said. “Send to Bradley Manor where Lady Holland resides and ask her.”
“Bradley Manor is in Lincolnshire.”
“Two days ride at most, my lord.”