It was a fine speech from a man standing in a wet shirt with his belly pushing through and without even a coin for a cup of wine. Yet it seemed to work, as Duke Charles nodded like a man overcome with emotion. A clap of his hands summoned a dozen servants to take the guests away and tend them, with promises that he would see them when they were refreshed and rested.
Richard was happy to allow the gaggle of servants to take him to rooms where water was heated, to stand him before an enormous brass tub of steaming water and strip and measure him. He sank into the bath with closed eyes, wincing at the heat that stung his flesh but immediately began to uncoil the rigid mass between his shoulder blades. He gave a great groan, despite himself. Across the room, Edward was descending into another, though his bulk had the servants scurrying to mop the water that sloshed out.
As Richard lay back, he wanted to weep at the way his pain had dwindled. He resolved at that moment to bring home one of the baths, perhaps with a few of the servants who knew how to manage it. It was wonderful. When he opened his eyes, he discovered a platter of food had been laid out on a wide board alongside. He picked at grapes and sank a full cup of some clear spirit, choking at the aniseed warmth that seared his throat.
‘That is a powerful draught, Edward,’ he called. ‘You’d like it well.’ His brother sat back with his enormous arms resting on the edges of his bath. He opened his eyes at Richard’s voice and reached for the cup, immediately filled and held out by one of the attendants. Richard saw the hand stiffen in the air, then Edward shook his head, waving the cup away.
‘No. I will not take the grape or the grain until I have my England back. I am too fat, too slow. I sweat, Brother – and I have folds that were not there when last I fought and jousted. No, Richard, I will live like a virgin monk until I am ready to take it all back. I will not lose all I have won because I have grown soft, now or ever again. I swear to God, on my life and my honour.’ As Richard watched, he saw something of his brother’s old strength in the jut of his jaw, for all it was made softer by the rolls of flesh. He sent up his own private prayer that the big ox would have the will and not fail and be found blubbering into his cups.
A thought struck Richard and he grew still.
‘Your child will have been born by now, surely. You could have a son.’
Edward closed his eyes once more, dozing in the heat and the steam.
‘Or a daughter, or a child born dead. I need an army, Richard. Then we will see.’ He opened his eyes again suddenly, staring at his brother across the room.
‘Get me up at dawn, Richard. I would like to train as you do. Will you bear the bruises for me?’
The thought filled Richard with dismay. Yet he understood his brother’s impulse and the truth was that back in England, their titles and their lands were being taken away by act of Parliament. They had so little hope that he would not steal the last of it from his brother.
‘I will, Edward, of course. Rest now.’
Elizabeth walked almost in a daze along the great nave of the Abbey, where kings had been crowned and Mass said for five centuries. Lit by a dim gleam of lamps above, she shivered, clutching her son close to her so he would smell her skin and feel the comfort and warmth of it. She forced herself on, looking stiffly ahead, too painfully aware of the man limping along on her left side, his stick tapping on the tiled floor. Ahead, Abbot Thomas Millyng awaited them by the baptismal font, the man an ancient with great white eyebrows and a face the colour of brick.
Derry Brewer leaned in as he tapped along.
‘I do not make war on children, my lady. Don’t fear for that. Think of tonight as a little truce between us, if you will. My lord Warwick is of the same mind. The news reached us of what you were about and we decided we could not miss such a thing.’
Elizabeth clenched her jaw until her teeth hurt, refusing even to look at him. She knew Richard Neville, Earl Warwick, walked behind her. Her heart had begun to trip and shudder when she’d seen him sweep low into a bow at the Abbey door. It hammered then in such a wild rattle she thought she would surely faint and spill the child on to the stones. She knew them all and she did not trust them. The only mercy was that she could not look into Warwick’s face and see his triumph. She knew him best of all, had seen him straight away for the clinging vine he was, when she first arrived at court.
Elizabeth knew she was flushed and that perspiration shone and ran on her skin. Her breath had grown short and her hands were trembling about as badly as those of Brother Paul earlier. How she wished she had not left the rooms then! Her mother walked on her right side with her head down and all the light and cheerfulness stolen from her.
The Abbey church was a house of God. That was their protection, Elizabeth told herself, over and over. Yet there had been murders before in the sight of altars, good men cut down on consecrated ground, though their fall had shaken crowns and kingdoms.
As if in echo of those old quakes, Elizabeth shook her head in small denial, increasing her pace. They would have to kill her before she let them win. They would have to tear Edward’s son from her arms. For her husband’s sake, for her own pride, she kept her head high. They surely knew she was afraid, but she would not cringe for them.
There may have been stranger groups assembled in the centuries that the Abbey had seen, though Elizabeth doubted it. Brewer and Warwick were accompanied by John Neville, whom she had known as Northumberland. He had a cold eye and she shuddered as she felt it crawl over her skin. Apart from her mother, only the terrified wet nurse, Jenny, stood by her, though a pace behind. Three women and three men, with fear enough to curdle milk in the air between them.
When Elizabeth reached Abbot Thomas, he looked about as frog-eyed and nervous as she did herself. Warwick wore a sword on his hip and she did not doubt the spymaster was armed with vicious little blades, the sort of razors preferred by men who murdered and stepped away. It was hard not to flinch in the presence of such a man, with all Derry Brewer was capable of.
Elizabeth forced herself to look at Earl Warwick. He caught the glance and immediately dropped a leg back into a sweeping bow.
‘My lady, Master Brewer spoke the truth. You will not be harmed, on my honour.’
‘Poor ill, adulterated coin that it is,’ Elizabeth said clearly. Warwick flushed, but he still smiled. He had his victory, she realized. Sitting high on his hill, he could choose not to crow.
The abbot cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him.
‘I remind you all. Her Highness, the Queen Consort, Lady Elizabeth of York has been granted sanctuary … by the power and the authority of God’s Holy Church. God sees us all, gentlemen. Through the lens of these windows, He sees with especial clarity. He watches us now. He judges our every word. In His name, in this Holy place, I will not allow interruptions, nor any clamour. Baptism is the door to the Church, the first of the seven great sacraments. It is not a mummer’s show. Is that understood?’
The three men all nodded and murmured that it was. Elizabeth swallowed her fear as the abbot’s gaze passed over her. She dared not hope to leave that place in peace. The stakes were too high and she was already thinking in desperation what she must do if the child was taken from her.
‘All children are born with the original sin of mankind still clinging to them, a stain only the clear water of baptism can wash away, as Christ himself was baptized in the River Jordan. Now, Elizabeth, hand the child into my care, Edward, your son.’
Elizabeth felt tears spring in her eyes and spill down her cheeks as she opened her cloak. She was so afraid at that moment, it was a blessing she was almost blind with tears. If one of the other three men had reached for her son then, she thought she would surely die on that spot, her heart bursting in her chest.
As she held him out, the abbot took the babe in its swaddling, smiling at the sleeping, peaceful face, for all he felt the mother’s fear and was angry at the men who had brought it about. Even so, he refused to rush through the vows. Elizabeth and her mother resp
onded aloud, their voices joined by Brewer and the two Neville men, rather than incur the wrath of the abbot.
‘Do you renounce Satan?’
‘I do.’
‘And all his works?’
‘I do.’
‘And all his empty promises?’
‘I do.’
Abbot Thomas touched a thumb into chrism oil and marked the baby’s ears, eyelids and breast, drawing a cross on his forehead. The child began to fuss and struggle then, shocked into a moment of silence as the abbot gathered water from the font in a silver jug and held the child as he poured a clear stream over his face, murmuring, ‘Then I baptize you, Edward, in the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen.’ The tiny child spluttered and choked, spitting and blinking all around him.
It was a strangely solemn moment. Elizabeth felt some of her fears recede as the immediate threat disappeared. Her little boy would not be denied heaven, even if he died at that very moment. It was a relief from a burden she had borne for days and she felt fresh tears come. It was exasperating to be made to seem so weak in front of her husband’s enemies.
She watched as the abbot accepted a clean cloth from her mother and wrapped the child’s shaking body. The little boy was red-faced and bawling by then, but reborn. Elizabeth watched as her mother took the child and wrapped him snugly, before she turned at last to the three witnesses.
Derry Brewer was smiling to himself.
‘It was my idea to come, my lady. I feel like I should apologize now. Yet I wanted to see it. In the end, his father has run. The throne is secure and returned to Lancaster, with an heir who is a fine young man. We have some years of hard work ahead, but that was always so. Yet I had to see this, Edward’s son. If he lives, perhaps it will be as a knight for King Henry’s son, I don’t know.’ A shadow passed across Brewer’s brow then and he wiped a hand over his face. ‘I hope he will not be raised in hatred, my lady. I have had enough of wars.’
‘He will be king, Master Brewer,’ Elizabeth whispered. Brewer grimaced as if in sorrow.
‘If he shows the size of his father, perhaps he’ll be made a captain for the Lancasters. Beyond that, you should not hope, if you’ll take my advice. Or you’ll curdle him and ruin him.’
Warwick bowed once again, standing tall and confident as he tapped his staring brother on the shoulder and began to walk back down the long nave. Derry stood for a time, watching a woman hold her child to herself, glaring at him as if her anger alone could keep them safe. The spymaster shook his head with a sigh, bowed and walked away.
8
At dawn, Christmas bells began to sound across the city of Dijon in Burgundy, muffled by falling snow, echoing into cacophony, with the beat of a heart within. The world was at peace and in all Christendom families exchanged gifts as the wise men had done on their arrival at a stable, over a thousand years before.
Richard slipped, his leg suddenly skidding out from under him. The damned snow melted to mush wherever he trod and every step was treacherous and could send him sprawling. He was cold and he was in pain and he was close to collapse, panting fire, though the air carried a grave chill. He gripped the railing with both hands, steadying himself.
On the cloistered yard, his brother stood bare-chested, snowflakes turning to clear water on his shoulders as they touched. There was blood running down his face. Edward began each day with an hour of boxing before dawn, against any brawny lad from the city who wished to risk his teeth or his knuckles for a few silver coins. Word had spread quickly that the king of England could be knocked down without reprisal. Once that had been settled, each day began with a line of farm boys rolling their shoulders and cracking their necks, waiting for the chance to put Edward on his backside in the cold.
The last of them lay senseless on the stone flags, with Edward standing over him, smiling in triumph. As the younger man was dragged away by two of his friends, Edward felt the sting of his cut and reached up, frowning at the blood that leached into his bandaged hands. He fought in Roman style, but had decided against the studded metal gloves they’d worn. His aim had been to improve his wind, as a pony gone to pasture could be brought back to racing fitness over time.
In the two months since landing, Richard had observed his brother’s determination with both pleasure and awe, seeing at last the man who had stood his ground and fought on foot and ahorse at Towton, for all the hours of daylight and into the dark.
On first arrival in Dijon, where Duke Charles had his palaces, they had sparred every day for hours until Richard was a mass of bruises and cracked ribs. His brother was still only twenty-eight and he’d kept his vow over strong drink and excess, living instead like one of the stoics or a monk of swords. When Edward had boxed and run for miles around the hills, he would return to the striking posts, hacking back and forth until the oak was cut through. His life was simple, without the subtleties of planning and thinking ahead.
Richard smiled at that. His brother would be God’s own vengeance when they were ready. That was something he would not mind seeing. He knew Edward’s weakness was that he worked hard only when he was oppressed and struck down. Left without enemies, Edward grew fatter and lazier by the day. Denied his crown and his newborn son, he had become a stern figure, unbending and uncaring for those he battered in his training.
Edward looked up then as he sensed his brother’s gaze, his frowning glare easing. Richard was not sure it was imagination, or whether he could truly hear the snowflakes hissing as they touched exposed skin.
‘It is too cold to stand there without a shirt, Brother,’ he called across the open yard.
Edward shrugged.
‘I only feel it when I stop. I am a Spartan, Richard. I feel no pain.’
Richard bowed his head in reply, though he felt a twinge of anger at seeing a physical confidence he would never know. The twist in his back had worsened over the previous month, with some deep part of it sending such a spike of pain that he had sought out remedies from the apothecaries of Burgundy. The damned shoulder blade winged out constantly, making it feel as if someone was always touching him on his back. He had even tried imagining it was his father’s hand pressing there, but the thought had become oppressive.
At least Duke Charles had signed over a stipend of great generosity. Each month a satchel of gold and silver was brought to Edward. Richard then had to ask for his portion of the pouches, an experience that humiliated him, as if he were a child going to his father for a silver penny. He spent his small wealth then on reeking oils and herbs, on draughts and powders and prayers in the cathedrals. Richard had found a blind slave girl whose task it was to work her thumbs into the most painful points, until he could not stand it any longer. With the deep metal baths, an hour of that probing gave him some ease, so that he could sleep.
Edward snatched up a sword in its scabbard as well as a woollen vest and overshirt he had laid aside. He tutted to himself at how damp the garments were, shaking off the layer of snow. He approached the edge of the cloister where his brother had come to stand.
‘Any more news from home?’ Edward asked hopefully. Richard shook his head and his brother sighed. ‘Then I will come in to break bread … unless you have a desire to cross blades one more time with me? I have another master coming in this afternoon, some friend of Charles from the south. I need to be limber.’
‘And you will batter him unconscious, as you did the last one,’ Richard said acidly, still feeling his most recent set of bruises. It took him longer than most men to heal and move well again, though he had never admitted it or asked Edward to hold back. His pain was his own and not to be shared.
Edward shrugged.
‘Perhaps. Given what we are about, Richard? Given what we intend to do, I cannot begrudge any time spent training my feet and my shoulders – and my striking arm. Either we set foot in England – and win – or I might as well throw my wife and son on to a fire.’
Edward stood before his younger brother, his bare chest still rising and falling from h
is exertion, with the line of blood mixing with snowmelt so that it spread into trails down Edward’s chin and on to his neck. Richard could see the desperation in his brother’s eyes – and it shocked him, rocked his own confidence. Edward had always been the blusterer, the one who could laugh at death and cheerfully kick it up the arse as it turned away. Yet his ebullience had taken a terrible beating. He’d left the land of his birth without even the coat on his back. He was now dependent on the generosity of a man who had no especial love for England, but hated the king of France – and the Lancasters by default.
‘It will not be long now, I swear,’ Richard said. Even so far from home, he looked left and right to see if they could be overheard, leaning over the railing as Edward moved in to hear. To his pleasure, Richard found he was at the same height as his brother for once, his equal in stature.
‘Duke Charles has agreed to sixteen hundred men and three dozen ships, whenever we want to go. He has no good archers, but some hundred or so will be his hand-gunners, with thunder and lightning at their call. I have said the first day of March, no later. Even if the winter blasts us still, we will go then. He’ll give us ships and men and arms to make a landing. The rest is up to you – and the army you will raise in spring.’
‘Will they come though?’ Edward said under his breath. It was barely aloud, muttered almost to himself. Richard chose to answer it even so.
‘We had barely three days before and yet eight hundred loyal men raced to your side! With two armies pinching in on us and no place to stand, they still came! If we can win a single month and an open field, they’ll remember York. They’ll remember Towton and what you did for them then. They will! We’ll beat the bastards back in rags after that. And we will not stop until they have been trampled. Not this time. Warwick, Montagu, Bishop Neville, King Henry, Margaret, Edward of Lancaster and Derry Brewer. I’ll leave none alive. They have broken faith with us – we will break their faith in turn.’
Edward saw the fury and the passion in his brother and he was moved by it, reaching out and gripping Richard by his neck and shaking him in affection. The big hand went almost around and Edward felt his brother’s throat move as he swallowed.
Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors Page 11
