Edward - Interactive

by Mike Voyce

  Chapter 19 – Growing Up

  (Past)

  Surely it was in the autumn term I hoped to be sent down, in that happy band, too poor, too stupid, too lazy or too wise to stay longer in Cambridge. It would have been so, but for Lady Margaret's intervention with excuses for my poor performance; the duties of rank.

  The first of these was upon me almost before I was back at Cambridge; the investiture of the King's young son, Prince Henry, as Duke of York and it took place on All Hallows Day, the 1st November, in the tenth year of King Henry's reign. I was sixteen years old and the new duke was just three.

  The first thing which came to me was a letter from Master Gibbons; you shall see what he said,

  “...The King and the Countess think it unwise that the dukedom of York, held by Prince Richard Plantagenet before his disappearance, should be left vacant. It is the wish of the King that his son Prince Henry shall be invested in the title.

  When you inherit your own titles you shall be the senior duke in England next after Prince Henry and the King has ordained you shall acknowledge his right by your presence at his investiture and in the weeks of tournament and celebration which follow.

  As clerk to your wardrobe I shall make all arrangements on your behalf and send servants to you in Cambridge to make your preparations...”

  Next came the attentions of a cloth merchant from London, sent to me especially for the occasion. Clothes have always been made for me, but never such fine clothes. He and his servants were determined I should be the finest gentleman in Westminster. There was bolt after bolt of the most exquisite materials; satins, silks, velvet and jewels, with yards of cloth of gold.

  There were hats and hose and boots and belts, swords and daggers; adornments of all kinds. At swords I drew the line; I had Duke Henry's Sword and wanted none other. There was a spirited argument, the clothier had no wish to be a sword-smith and appearance was all. But I meant to wear the sword I would carry to the tournament. The merchant was indeed no sword-smith and I had my way.

  Teeth were sucked and heads were shaken at my simplicity, my unadorned hands; my unwillingness to play the peacock. I was flattered. I was amazed at the extravagance of it all. It was made clear, difficult as I was; there were limits to the merchant’s patience. I was his shop window; it was worth more than £100 a year to him! It took many days to make me the duke Lady Margaret painfully reminded me I was not yet become.

  Of the days of celebration I should see little, beyond the part I played myself. There would be a holiday for the whole capital with all that meant.

  There was the press and jostle of people in the streets, the side-shows, the noise and cries of hawkers, the vivid colours, all different, on every back. The press and stink of the population. I've never caught the smell of mankind so keenly; it made me gag.

  No one could walk the streets in the clothes I wore, nor even ride on horseback. I travelled in Lady Margaret's carriage.

  The cheers were loud, Henry was a popular king. Whether people care for the opinions of their lords and priests I don't know but they care for firm government that keeps the peace.

  “God save the King.

  God save Prince Henry!”

  The streets resounded everywhere.

  Some of the cheers were for us. I even heard cheers for Buckingham when the crowds caught sight of the red and black of my servants’ livery.

  There were tumblers and jugglers, the music of strolling minstrels playing for farthings. Everywhere there was giddy jollity and gay display.

  The King’s elder son, Arthur, was old enough to look the prince he was but Henry was just a baby. It was strange indeed to make such an infant a duke, second in line to the throne. What will befall England if the King and Prince Arthur should miscarry?

  “It is important for us to be seen together, for you to support the House of Tudor.”

  It was Lady Margaret speaking as we travelled on towards the Abbey.

  “Margaret of Burgundy calls her puppet the duke of York; she claims he's one of the Princes in the Tower, young Richard. She pledges her faith he has a better right to the throne of England than the King. My son shall show them! It's my grandson who shall be duke of York and all England shall kneel to him.”

  It was an unaccustomed outburst and we travelled in silence for a space.

  “It is for this you have all this finery you hate so much.

  I hate it too. I hoped to have given up all this but, if it's got to be done, the sooner the better, before I get any older. There is so much in manners, Edward, every detail must be right. If it isn't, there can be great offence. Wars have started on less.

  Your being here shows the compliance between the houses of Stafford and Tudor. There are many who remember your father, as others remember Prince Richard. There shall be an end to the discontent my son's had to face from that Burgundian upstart!

  It is important you be seen to be well, and that you be loyal.”

  For a moment it put me in mind of the poor, simple boy, the earl of Warwick. He was imprisoned in the Tower lest the discontent and ambitious used him to challenge the Crown, in memory of Edward IV. There had been an impostor pretending to be the earl of Warwick, put forward when Tudor enemies believed the original to be dead and out of the way. That rebellion had collapsed when King Henry displayed the real earl to the King's detractors. Now there was a merchant's boy, Perkin Warbeck, travelling round the courts of Europe pretending to be the young Prince Richard, the younger son of Edward IV.

  Lady Margaret was apologising to me. She was making excuses for our shared discomfort. It was a thing she hardly ever did. My formal reply was self-conscious, for this occasion of state.

  “Lady Margaret, you are my guardian. I'm loyal to you and to the King who's been kind to me, and so I am loyal to his heirs. I am honoured to be here, to show my respect for you and, for you, the new duke.”

  Trumpets blared as Prince Henry was led into the great hall, looking lost as he sat alone on a mighty courser. He sat as still as he could while Henry the king knighted him and thirty three men with him, all mounted on horseback.

  It was my job to fix the right spur to his tiny boot, while the Marquis of Dorset did the same at the left. When it was done the King lifted him down on to a table saying,

  “Be a good knight.”

  The crowd cheered as the King kissed his son and held him up to acclamation.

  After came High Mass, at the Chapel Royal, with eight bishops attending.

  All the ceremony cost Lady Margaret great effort but she would stint none of it, neither then nor at the tournament and banquet that followed. The Duke's reception wasn't comfortable, though the King's hospitality was lavish as ever. The confection of royal entertainment was only out done by the measure of food and drink.

  I was impatient for the tournament,

  “To run well at the tilt,

  To leap on horseback at every side,

  Without stirrup or other help,

  And being therein expert,

  Then armed at all points.”

  It was the dream of every boy who ever lived.

  The first day of tournament was glorious. All the knights wore the green and white of the King. The pavilions were brilliantly plumed in tawny, black, light tawny and scarlet. The young prince watched from a cot and the Princess Margaret judged the honours.

  I was frustrated, that day, to ride only twice. But I lashed and swung with my blunt sword with the best in the tourney. I still sat my horse at the end when many a good knight was fallen.

  Lady Margaret would have restrained me,

  “You are here to show your rank not your skill. My son would not have you a hero, but living life quiet and tranquil.”

  Lady Margaret pointed to the real dangers of the lists but I would have none of it.

  “I fight for honour, the King's as well as my own.”

  There was credit for me in jousting with the lance, one against one, as our horses thundered down on each
other along the rails. The shock of collision and the shattering of lance against shield thrilled me every time. But there was also fury, when I found my opponents were all chosen by hidden hands that denied me the highest honours. My anger was just, for I wasn't defeated in any contest.

  Of the masks and revels which followed each night the memory that stays with me isn't of pomp and richness or flattery for knightly success, but the sense of power and excitement and importance that lay behind it. Most of all was the greed for these things glittering in the eyes of everyone. I wondered what that little boy made of it all. He seemed frightened by everything, as would I have been in Henry's young place.

  I haven't caught the whole drama, but it struck me less for the vision and more for its sense of history. This was the investiture as duke of York of the future Henry VIII. He was never intended to be king and never trained for it. He had an elder brother, the Arthur Edward mentioned. Arthur was the prince who carried Tudor hopes for England. It was a tragedy when he died young. It was strange to see Henry VIII, that most notorious of English kings, as a small boy of three.

  But there was something here much closer to Edward, the threat Lady Margaret mentioned, of Perkin Warbeck. His claim to be Richard duke of York was a thorn in the side of King Henry for many years. The King devoted immense effort, devoted all foreign policy, to forcing Perkin out of one European court after another, when he did come to England he was captured, tortured and forced to confess. Eventually he was executed. Perkin never held any real power, never commanded any proper army. Why were the Tudors so afraid of him?

  I found the answer in “The History of Richard III” by Sir George Buck. Sir George was, you remember, Master of the Revels in the time of Elizabeth I, a post which gave him access to private papers. While he wrote to exonerate King Richard of the murder of the Princes in the Tower, he also concluded Perkin Warbeck was indeed Richard, duke of York, smuggled out of the Tower in King Richard's time and kept in disguise for fear of Tudor assassins. As the son of Edward IV he had a better claim to the throne than Henry Tudor. If Sir George was right I could well understand Lady Margaret's fears and why a three-year-old child should be made a duke.

  Young Edward knew none of this, but he must have known the Princes were denied the crown because of illegitimacy, that the Tudor claim was also illegitimate. He must also have known that his own ancestry was lawful, as Richard III’s had been. I wonder if he remembered his interview with Master Gibbons, I wonder if the fierce determination of Lady Margaret's words in the carriage made him uncomfortable. After Richard's death, Edward Stafford, as lawful heir to Thomas of Woodstock, was a truer heir to the throne of England even than Richard, duke of York.

  As the autumn term wore to an end, then Christmas, with more time spent at court than Penshurst, and on into a new term, Edward became more and more desperate. How could he live longer this lonely life, suffering for want of friends, for want of Eadie?

  His pestering of the prior increased,

  (Past)

  “I have a daughter and family my studies keep me from. I need them here. They have a right to my protection. If they cannot come to me I should go to them.”

  The prior's answer was always the same.

  “Neither the Abbot nor the Pope will break the Rule of the Order of St. Benedict for your convenience Sir Edward.

  As to your going, you are a sworn brother of this College, your duty, your honour keep you here. Your inheritance makes you an example to others and binds you to your duty. You may not go.”

  In defeat Edward's pleading changed. If he could not have Eadie, could he have Thomas?

  “I need a private tutor.

  I learned well from Thomas.

  Thomas could teach me what distraction stops me from learning.

  I need a secretary for my courtly duties.

  I need a body guard for the envy my rank causes.”

  Perhaps it was true; perhaps Thomas could help with the arrears of studies. Perhaps even William or Lady Margaret thought so. It was a compromise that might silence demands for Eadie.

  However it was, the delirious day came when Thomas arrived in Cambridge. Dispensation was given to live out of College and lodgings were found in the town. Whether Thomas was pleased to be sent playing nursemaid is impossible to say; he'd become distant and somehow older since that dreadful tour for the Welsh rents. The joy at seeing him, the only real friend in the World and bearer of news of Eadie, couldn't, I think, be resisted. Poor Thomas was given no peace.

  Friendship was reborn, tuition was renewed and work improved.

  (Past)

  There is a short image of Thomas' words of praise.

  They were sitting by the fire, the candles burned bright, Trim, who came with them from College, was pouring wine, mulled with a hot poker.

  “'T is all your work, Edward. It's well over my head and you set me puzzles you solve for yourself.”

  Edward’s cheeks glowed in that praise but he couldn't have done it without Thomas.

  So much of Edward had come at me it's amazing my own life went on at all. Yet in the midst of Edward, under pressure at work, Sarah telephoned.

  It came at a time I could barely keep up with telephone messages, Sarah pitched some questions at me. They were about a past life, if they could help me with Edward, or Sarah herself, I had to know.

  Did a certain name mean anything to me? A name half familiar, half unknown, God knows from where she dredged it. Who was he? Sarah would say little:

  he lived in the 14th century,

  he was a political reformer,

  he came before some sort of Star Chamber court for his pains.

  I asked Sarah if she thought he'd been important, she assured me he was.

  In all this there seemed to be a strong Jewish connection.

  Armed with a name it was fairly easy to check it out.

  I already knew Star Chamber didn't exist in the 14th century. I remembered from school days, it was a sort of court of Criminal Equity, taking its name from a design on the ceiling of the room where it met. It was set up, I thought, by Elizabeth I in the 16th century. In fact some historians trace it back to a statute of 1487, passed to enforce the laws of Henry VII. Sarah was still a century out.

  I searched the Dictionary of National Biography for the name Sarah gave me. There were three entries, two were reformers, both religious, neither of whom I'd want to be associated with and neither of them alive in the 14th century.

  As to the Jewish connection; the expulsions of the twelve hundreds and early thirteen hundreds made it highly unlikely these people were living in England at the time.

  Of course, an hour or so of research proves nothing. All the same, it was a disappointment. I phoned Sarah, once again she was unavailable; I left a message about my negative findings.

  Sarah was impossible to get hold of after that.

  Maybe something of my irritation came across in my message, “In view of your idea's lack of promise…”, but I had offered to have it professionally looked into by the contact I'd made in the Society for Psychical Research.

  One thing I have in common with Edward is a detestation of practical jokes. This goes back to my school days and I've always felt they're a pure expression of malice. Yet I didn't think Sarah was malicious. Was it some sort of game she was playing with me, or a test, or had I really missed something? I pondered what she meant by it. I still don't know today whether my impatience caused me to miss something important.

  Edward's life was pressing in again, with all the confusion of seeing scenes through him; I lurched into the very middle of his thoughts.

  (Past)

  I think, by now, I’ve come to know Thomas is Eadie's father, we talk often of my love for her and how I wanted news of her; just to talk about her and what she might be doing.

  I don't know if it is by Thomas's efforts but I started to get letters from her. They come by the regular commerce between Cambridge, London, Penshurst and by Northampton
shire, where Lady Margaret now lives. It is certain Master Gibbons must respect a seal and I trust him for the understanding we reached after that time he rebuked me for hiring servants. Now I’ve priceless letters from Eadie and news of her and Abigail to show to Thomas.

  Sometimes Thomas and I talk about my future. I told him I can't see how I can fail to attain my freedom with my titles when I come of age. I shall live the life I please, whether at Court or Penshurst; and who shall deny me Eadie then?

  Thomas shook his head.

  “The World doesn't run that way.

  You owe your obedience to your king and must do his bidding. You must be able to meet your peers and your servants all with their expectations and you must satisfy them all.

  The greater your estates the less your freedom. The less your estates the less your means to use your freedom.”

  In 1495 it was revolutionary wisdom but, at all times, a timeless verity.

  It had been such a fleeting moment of Edward's thoughts but Thomas's words are as appropriate to me now as they were when he spoke them. Their truth should be marked.

  When I was young, a good friend and I would debate Free Will and Predestination. We shared a room as fellow apprentices in those distant days of leisured and gentlemanly professions, and we debated often to pass the time. His Eastern background, he insisted he was a White Russian, still loyal to the Tsar, disposed him to fatalism. He shared Thomas's opinion. It's a consolation for the misery in the World if you know there's nothing you can do about it. On the other hand, I railed against injustices and demanded of Heaven and Earth my sovereign right to amend what didn't please me. What a sick joke does that same human misery make if we have the power but not the wit or the will to change it?

  Philosophy is for the leisured. Mostly we're too sucked in the details of living to think about it, only now was Edward drawing me back to these enormous questions. Those years ago my friend had quoted Spinoza and I replied with Jean-Paul Sartre. The truth is the Universe is so vast that anything we can think is somewhere, at some time, true.

  (Past)

  At some time in 1495 the King's agents became nervous that Perkin Warbeck would find support in England. Pretending to be Perkin's own agents they started to ask delicate questions of prominent people. They asked Lady Margaret's brother-in-law, William Stanley, would he support Richard, duke of York?

  Sir William's answer was dismissive; he didn't want to get involved, neither for the King nor for any pretender. But it wasn't dismissive enough, he didn't tell the King and he hadn't said he would fight against Perkin. He was arrested for treason.

  The trial was a show trial, a political event, with the decision made before a word could be said in Sir William's defence. Part of the show was to put Edward Stafford on the panel of judges, without training or any guidance except this,

  “A loyal subject would find Sir William guilty.”

  It was said to Edward darkly, all threats left unspoken, but it was clear; duty to the King was not justice to Sir William.

  Edward had been enthusiastic to be a judge but as he began to realise what it meant enthusiasm died. There is an echo of a plea to Sir Reginald Bray,

  I meant to see Master William but he was on estate business in the North. Sir Reginald was in London and I went to see him, that night, during the trial.

  He met me in a private chamber and I told him my fears as we sat by the fire.

  “Sir William is my guardian's brother-in-law, he is a loyal servant to the King and I find no fault in him. How can I condemn him?”

  Sir Reginald examined his fingernails.

  “Was not treason proposed to him, and did he not do nothing?”

  “That is my point. He did nothing.”

  “Did he say he would fight for the King?

  Did he inform on the villain who tried to suborn him?”

  “That villain was a king's agent. And as to his loyalty, it was Sir William's men who saved the King at Bosworth when King Richard threatened his life.”

  Sir Reginald steepled his hands as if in prayer.

  “It does not become a judge who has not yet possession of his own lands and titles to give judgement against the will of those set to guide him. Your duty is to the King. If you deny your sovereign it will be to deny your honour and to your own jeopardy.

  You cannot save Sir William. Do you remember your indemnity Sir Edward? In it you admit treason. If you speak for the King's enemy now it will be taken as furtherance of that treason and complicity in Sir William’s own offence.

  Your choice is simple; you can do your duty or join Sir William at the block. As you say, he is your guardian’s brother-in-law; it may be the King will spare him, if you do not exacerbate his crime.”

  There was nothing more to say and I rose to leave, but before I could go Sir Reginald stopped me,

  “I will do you this service, Sir Edward, I will forget this conversation.”

  I stumbled away from Sir Reginald’s chambers and through the dark streets of the city, reckless to my jeopardy from the dark alleys but in agony for Sir William.

  William Stanley was condemned, his property was confiscated and he himself was executed. It caused hardly a ripple in public life but it gave Edward bad dreams. The dead Sir William and the living Lord Stanley haunted his sleep, their phantoms accusing him of murdering innocence, their presence threatening revenge.

  If I close my eyes I can conjure those two faces, Sir William and Thomas, Lord Stanley, appearing to Edward as he lay in the dark. I can see him turning his head to cry into his pillow.

  (Past)

  There’s just one more scene of this sorry episode; it came mere days after the execution, when William Gibbons and Andrew returned to the capital. Andrew found Edward in a tavern, drinking, morosely in a corner, away from the bawdiness of other patrons.

  Andrew greeted him,

  “What ails my lord?”

  “Don’t mock me. It’s a great loss to give away innocence and honour in one day, and a greater calamity still to kill the life of another.”

  And Edward told the story of Sir William’s trial. A story Andrew already knew from William Gibbons.

  “And ye think ye are to blame?

  Sir William had to die, he knew the King for a coward.

  He was there at Bosworth and he saw how King Henry shied away from King Richard, white faced and unable to meet him.

  I heard it from Master Gibbons, and he from others who were there on that day.

  It was Sir William’s men killed King Richard, did you know that? While the present king cowered behind his body guard.”

  Edward didn’t know what to say; uncomfortable that disgrace should be lifted from him to be given to the King.

  “Small men cover their dishonour with acts of wickedness while greater men face themselves squarely. Why man, did ye not know this?”

  Edward just looked at him, impressing Andrew with his total lack of guile.

  “Aye and there’s a thing more. Sir William had to die now, for ’tis rumoured Perkin Warbeck is the true duke of York and a man that honour could follow.”

  The subject ended there for neither of them wanted to pursue treason further.

  It is ironic how the next image contrasts with what we've just heard. 1495 was such a year of contradictions; Edward was tossed in every direction but that of his own wishes.

  (Past)

  To be a knight of the Garter is not like being a knight of any other order. Its honour goes to the most powerful men, a badge for the rich. Perhaps that's why I was chosen. But there's more than this, it's the most glittering order of chivalry in Europe.

  The memory of it isn't of sight or sound, it's of feelings. Of the dazzle of the candles, the great gathering of knights, the richness of the ceremony, the King's sword, the robes and the colours all with unearthly opulence.

  A Garter Knight stands in direct relationship to all that the crown means to England. It's to be defended in blood, to the last drop. It is
nothing less than the honour of England. As such it is not as the duty any subject owes his lord; it's a personal badge of belief. Betray that trust and there is nothing left.

  For the first time I saw my father, the great lord, as the Conscience of England. It was he who challenged the king when the king did wrong. Someday I too should shoulder that burden, to be the Conscience of England and do what I know to be right.

  I left London in my fine clothes and with my new sword, bound to turn my feet to Cambridge, with only a short stop at Penshurst. Just the same, I left touched to the soul.

  I went with Thomas. He attended me at all times except in the ceremony itself; fussing around me, somewhere between a father and a servant. We turned our horses first to Kent.

  “Well Sir Edward, what would you now?”

  I made him little answer with less thought.

  “Do you fancy you're above mere mortals, your birth and privileges justified in that ceremony?”

  I answered him “No.” but, still distracted, without the warmth of my boyhood. I tried to explain, the ceremony called me to a higher duty. Words stumbled over each other in lame vainglory. I fell silent under Thomas's unsympathetic eye.

  “As I thought.”

  I hope from the bottom of my heart his words were too soon said. I meant no lack of humility. All England has watched generations of noblemen destroy themselves in pride and arrogance. Was I like that? I didn't mean to be, yet Thomas was right, duty and position set you apart.

  The journey to Penshurst was cool, long as it lasted.

  Despite the point I won long ago about servants, the buildings at Penshurst were unchanged and Eadie and Abigail and Aletia were still there. Despite other de Stafford properties in the neighbourhood, properties including a great house of Duke Henry's day, not ten miles away, the home of my little Abigail was old and out of fashion. My father's house was now in disrepair but surely something should be done.

  I looked over that cosy, loving place with a jaundiced eye. I knew it wasn't yet time to call for the house I might want, Lady Margaret would never agree, yet the day should come when no one would refuse me.

  Abigail was pure joy to see. She won the hearts of all who saw her, we were so proud of everything she did. She was toddling now and came up to me as soon as she knew I was back, arms outstretched, crying “Dadda.” She took hold of my finger and led me away. We were all powerless to resist her.

  I staggered back at this last scene; it's the scene I told you about before, when it came to me all out of context.

  Now I can place it, the love of that little girl. The knightly Order of the Garter was taking Edward away from his little daughter; distance replacing familiarity. That wasn't its purpose: what stupid mistakes Edward could make!

  (Past)

  'Uncle Jasper' was the King's uncle, not mine. As 'Jasper of Hatfield' he was a respected soldier and served his nephew well, but as a duke? He married mother not just after Papa's death but after King Richard's, after the restoration of her jointure, when she was again rich. I've always thought Jasper married for position. Even the house he chose is a Stafford house, Thornbury has been in our family for more than two hundred years. The marriage will still, one day, have to be paid for from Stafford estates.

  Now 'Uncle Jasper' is dead. He always looked so dramatic, all in black satin and hung about with gold. He was like some devil in a tale of Dante Alighieri, the black to show his soul.

  Is it a sin that I've been a stranger to my mother since she married that man? For all she's fond enough of my sisters, she and I are truly like strangers. I didn't want to come to this funeral, nor would I but for this Christmas season. Trust Jasper to die at the festival of Our Lord's birth.

  Faith in God seems set aside in every church his body is brought to, all along the way from Thornbury to Keynsham. All for the twenty shillings paid to each church to receive him. The funeral alone is to cost one hundred marks, more than enough to keep many goodly tenants and their families all year.

  Even the monks of Our Lady of Keynsham are ready to pay homage to his dead body. And I doubt not there shall be chantries in perpetuity hereafter, pledging the monks in prayer and song forever for the relief of his soul.

  Funerals are serious occasions. A soul has departed. It is for us left behind to speak well of the dead and forgive his sins, for the sake of our own salvation. The departed soul must now face the Judgement of God alone. An awful prospect for any mortal man but one to fear indeed for such as Jasper Tudor, duke of Bedford.

  It's right we should speak well of the dead but should we not speak honestly? When a man of great titles and power dies the eulogies in his praise are endless and not an opportunity is lost by any man living to add to them. Are there no men of great position who do no great deeds?

  This, to me, false grief makes me restless.

  I blame Mother for the pomp and show, to impress tenants and retainers. I don't believe she loved Bedford. How could she after my father? She looks well and rich and even attractive. No grief worn widow, only delicate, polite tears after the fashion.

  If you talk to her you hear a different story,

  “Oh my dear, you don't know the pain.

  After Henry, with the poverty and danger, and now this…

  It's more than I can stand.”

  And she cries more soft tears.

  Henry, all sympathy and berating me for my lack of feelings. I can see he was moved, even taken in. Why had she not fought to keep her sons if she were so loving; most of all one who loved her as much as Henry? Yes, it's all very well for Henry, mother did take him back.

  It was a joy to see Anne and Elizabeth, my dear sisters, but what was I to say to them? It's so long since we lived together in the same house, in those far off days at Brecon, before Papa was killed, when we were all tiny children.

  When time came and I could, barely into the New Year, I left. Staying only to the extent of my promises, to return to Eadie and Abigail as soon as I could. More even than this, I did not care, as Duke Henry's heir, to be used as an ornament to show off Tudor grief.

  This recollection made me realise, Edward didn't understand something so obvious; I don't think it occurred to him at all.

  Edward and his little brother weren't taken in by Lady Margaret because Katherine didn't want them! They were taken in for their money and as political prisoners.

  Edward's memory of the young earl of Warwick came to me. He was sent to Lady Margaret's house at Coldharbour, like Edward, in 1485, before being taken away to the Tower. There were other children too, some taken in for the value of their estates, some to hold as a threat against their parents, some, like Edward and Warwick for the threat posed by their names. In no case were the children or their families given a choice.

  Little brother Henry was released, quite early, in pity for Katherine's pleadings but Edward, never. So skilful was Lady Margaret Edward never realised. Katherine did indeed lose a son, poor Lady. Her own position compromised by marriage to Jasper, what could she do? In some real sense Edward and young Henry were the new Princes in the Tower. It's just that Edward didn't realise it.

  I still don't know what to think of reincarnation, but guilt for Edward's ignorant, stupid and cold treatment of his mother mortifies me now, as I think of it. Edward simply couldn't forgive her for being a faithful wife to the man she was forced to marry.

  Frustration mixed with my own feelings in a dream. I seldom remember dreams but this one recurs over and over, ever since the Christmas Edward received his father's Sword.

  I see the Sword as it first lay, in its scabbard on a table in Edward's room. I see it carried sometimes, as it was at Jasper's funeral, fitting snugly at Edward's side. Then a breathless excitement catches in my throat, fading to disappointment as nothing happens. I see it increasingly seldom drawn, laid aside, forgotten. Then the dream troubles me and I see the Sword hanging in the air before my sleeping eyes. Sometimes the hilt is turned away from me, sometimes towards me, as when I saw
the truth of Edward's wardship.

  ***