Red Rose, White Rose

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘I learned of this heartless and bloody vengeance from the people with whom I took shelter in Wakefield and then I was forced to flee through the back garden as Lancastrian soldiers hammered at the front door, seeking Yorkist refugees.’

  Cuthbert looked exhausted as he ended his story and we pressed food and wine on him, which he barely tasted. Later, in a private moment between him and me, he also revealed John Neville’s terrible treachery.

  ‘I never saw Lord Neville come because it happened when I was taking Edmund from the field but apparently he did march in from the north with two thousand men to the cheers of our embattled forces, who saw him as their salvation. But then, under their very eyes, he crossed the line and joined the Lancastrians. Queen Margaret had promised him Middleham and Sheriff Hutton. It was Richard’s death knell, Cicely.’

  ‘Do not call that Frenchwoman queen, Cuddy,’ I snapped, my heart plummeting deeper in my already grief-stricken breast. ‘I pray to God that she will rot in hell and that John Neville will suffer the torture of having his son die before him at another man’s hand.’

  My mind was reeling and I struggled to breathe. It did not seem possible that John had crossed the line. I could not fathom how the man I had loved and who I thought had loved me could have knowingly made himself the cause of my husband’s death and worse than that, effectively an accomplice to my son’s murder. Had his love turned to hate? Was this his idea of revenge? His sadistic way of showing me that I had not won when I betrayed his love at Aycliffe Tower? Had we shared love at Coverdale so that he could ultimately betray me in his turn? And for what? For his son to inherit a couple of castles and a strip of England? It did not seem possible. We had parted friends. I had thought him a tender lover and honourable man. Instead he had revealed himself as a vengeful, greedy creature who had made me a notch on his bedpost and then stabbed me in the back. It was too much for me to bear. I thought that nothing now could drag me out of the pit of despair.

  As his father had commanded, Edward had been marshalling his supporters on the Welsh border ready to take on Jasper Tudor’s army when it set out from Pembroke to join the Lancastrian forces. After their gory triumph at Wakefield the red-rose banners had moved south and at the beginning of February Edward’s and Jasper’s armies clashed at a place called Mortimer’s Cross near Wigmore Castle resulting, praise be to God, in another glorious victory for Edward. Jasper successfully fled the field but his father Owen Tudor, King Henry’s step-father, was captured and taken to Hereford with other prisoners. In another mass blood-letting, without trial or sentence, all of them had been beheaded in the market place there.

  With my own grief still raw I considered that Edward could be forgiven for seeking Owen’s execution as revenge for the death of his own father and brother at Wakefield but in a letter he informed me that he had not ordered the executions.

  ‘I would not regard the beheading of Owen Tudor as adequate revenge for the death of my father and brother I assure you. I was away chasing Jasper Tudor, a man I consider far more important prey than his ageing rapscallion of a father. But the deed is done now and when I am king I shall grant Owen’s Welsh manors to William Herbert, who has been my staunchest ally and support in the West …’

  The name William Herbert and the granting of Owen Tudor’s manors meant nothing to me but Edward’s assertion ‘when I am king’ stirred me out of my lethargy. Of course, under the Act of Settlement, he was now the heir to the throne, but this letter implied that he had decided not to wait for the death of King Henry but to take the crown by force of arms, and since Dick of Warwick was still in London preparing to hold the city against the advancing Lancastrians, he had made the decision without consulting his cousin and mentor. While my desolate spirits soared at the drive and energy and military skill Edward had displayed, I wondered how Dick and his fellow magnates would regard the prospect of paying homage to such a young and untried king. I decided to pay a visit to the Erber, the imposing London residence of the Earl of Warwick.

  I had not been abroad in the streets since hearing of the losses at Wakefield and I was surprised at how quiet they were. It was as if the citizens were cowering behind closed doors fearful of what might be to come. Posted all over Cheapside were bills and pamphlets declaiming against the Lancastrians and warning Londoners that their properties and livelihoods were gravely at risk if the ‘raiders from the north’ marched through the gates. I detected Warwick’s propaganda machine at work, bolstering his own position as London’s defender and stressing the dangers of a rampaging Lancastrian army let loose in a city of rich merchant warehouses.

  Dick was magnanimously welcoming but received me in the great hall where he conducted his business, which bustled with servants and military personnel coming and going on their duties and clerks and couriers dealing with the earl’s surfeit of correspondence.

  ‘My poor bereaved aunt,’ he boomed in a voice that carried into the rafters. ‘I humbly crave your grace’s pardon. We have not yet commiserated together over the appalling deaths of our loved ones but as you see,’ he waved his black-velvet-clad arm to encompass the grand and crowded chamber, ‘there are many calls upon my time.’ He walked around his table of business, took my hand and kissed it. ‘You are greatly distressed I have no doubt but the news from Hereford is good.’

  ‘Indeed I am and it is,’ I acknowledged, thinking wryly that dark rings under inflamed eyes framed by a widow’s wimple and barbe hardly indicated that I was about to dance a galliard. ‘And it is news from Edward that brings me here, not commiserations. May I speak with you privately, my lord?’

  Dick did not look eager to oblige but nevertheless guided me quickly through his privy door and into a small ante-room. ‘Have you heard from Edward today?’ I enquired, reaching into my sleeve-pocket for his letter.

  ‘Not today but I gather men are flocking to his banner following his splendid victory at Mortimer’s Cross. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Let me read you a paragraph from a letter I received from him today.’ I said. When he heard the key phrase ‘when I am king’ his face did not alter but I thought I heard his tongue click behind his teeth. ‘Has Edward broached the matter of claiming the throne outright with you, Dick?’ I asked baldly, re-folding the letter.

  He rubbed his nose thoughtfully, couching his elbow in his other hand. ‘We have not spoken together since before the duke was killed as you know but no, he has not mentioned it to me in his letters. It is certainly a possibility.’

  ‘He is so young. After years of ineffectual rule the kingdom needs firm government. Is he really ready to take on the responsibilities of kingship?’

  Dick shrugged and his lips twitched. ‘Your son is a prodigy, my lady. Besides, he would not be alone. He would have me beside him.’

  ‘So you would support him?’

  ‘Yes I would and I would not be the only one. There is no doubt he has the right. But first we have to deal with the ever-growing horde of Lancastrians who are marching down from the north, ravaging the country as they go. The Frenchwoman has told them they can have victors’ spoils if they fight their way to London and I have the task of stopping them, otherwise the city will be ransacked. So, much though I would love to debate the merits and demerits of your son as King of England, if you will forgive me, I have more urgent matters to attend to.’

  This interview had not made me anymore favourably disposed towards Warwick than I had been before but at least I had the reassurance of one very powerful magnate that he would support Edward’s claim to the throne if, indeed, he intended to make it.

  Nor did my opinion of my nephew improve after he led a large force against the Lancastrians in the middle of February and clashed with them once again at St Albans. This time Londoners were really given reason to panic because their blue-eyed hero failed to see off the much-feared horde and was forced to retreat further north with the remnants of his army, thus leaving their golden city wide open to Lancastrian rape and pillage. For me however, the m
ost serious consequence of this defeat had been that Warwick had taken the king to the battle and managed to lose him. King Henry had been found by Lancastrian officers in his usual state of dazed bewilderment sitting under an oak tree somewhere and been reunited with his wife and son, which meant that he could no longer be held in London as a useful hostage against Lancastrian good behaviour.

  Once again I put aside my state of mourning because now I could foresee that if the leading Lancastrians entered London – Somerset and Exeter in particular – they would have no compunction in using my two younger boys as hostages in their turn, bringing terrible pressure to bear on Edward and Dick when they united to confront their enemies again, to say nothing of the terror it would inflict on George and Dickon.

  The two boys answered my summons from the schoolroom with their different attitudes to life reflected in their dress. Although only eleven George already had his own distinct ideas about what he wore and had perched his cocky black felt hat at a jaunty angle and pinned a bright blue cockade on it, making little concession to the solemnity of mourning, and he had insisted that the tailor put wide puffed sleeves on his tight-waisted and full-skirted black doublet, whereas eight-year-old Dickon, less flamboyant and more prone to chill than his brother, looked swamped in a rather clerical black gown relieved by a dark fur lining and a fur-edged cap. They both bent the knee and kissed my cheek before I bid them pull up stools to sit beside me.

  ‘I am sending you to Bruges,’ I said, watching their reactions carefully. George seemed to glow with excitement and Dickon was the first to protest.

  ‘To Bruges!’ he echoed in alarm. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because the Lancastrians defeated the Earl of Warwick at St Albans and although the earl got away, there is no knowing now whether London will open the gates to the enemy. If they do, it would be better if you two sons of York were not in the country.’

  ‘What do you think they might do to us, lady mother?’ enquired George rather nervously, as if he was not sure if he wanted to hear the answer. ‘Would they kill us like they killed Edmund?’

  How I wished children were not so painfully direct! ‘No, George, but they might use you to force Edward and Dick to do things they do not wish to do. Do you understand?’

  ‘You mean use us as hostages?’

  ‘Yes, possibly. Basically until the Lancastrians are routed you would be safer in Bruges. The Duke of Burgundy will protect you and he has a court full of artists and intellectuals who will teach you many things that you cannot learn here.’

  ‘I do not want to leave you, mother,’ said Dickon flatly. ‘Who will protect you?’

  ‘Well you cannot anyway, Dickon,’ George scoffed. ‘You are not even strong enough yet to wield a sword.’

  ‘That is not true!’ cried Dickon, incensed. ‘I have a wooden one.’

  ‘That is enough,’ I scolded. ‘Thank you for worrying about me Dickon but I have a whole household of people to protect me and most of all your Uncle Cuthbert. You will sail on Friday with Anicia to look after your everyday needs and your tutor to guide your studies. I will send gifts for your host Duke Philip and his wife the Duchess Isabella. I want you to write to me every week, both of you. I will miss you terribly but let us pray it will not be for long. Soon Edward and Dick will come back to London and it will be safe for you to return.’

  I said this with a smile but there was no reason to hope that the situation would improve soon. The boys sailed as planned amid reports flooding in from the towns surrounding London that the Lancastrian army was running riot, plundering and raping and even raiding churches and abbeys, stealing precious chalices and relics for their gold and jewels. This terrifying activity made Londoners more determined than ever that none of them should be admitted to the city, not even the king and particularly not ‘the Frenchwoman’. I heard that my sister Anne, now Dowager Duchess of Buckingham, came with a deputation to the Mayor and Aldermen to plead for the gates to be opened but she did not visit me which was no surprise, nor were her efforts on behalf of the Lancastrians successful. Londoners simply did not believe that promises of good behaviour would be fulfilled and declared that they would wait for the return of the Duke of York and the Earl of Warwick.

  It seemed that a battle at the gates of London was almost inevitable as we learned that Edward and Dick had now united their forces near Oxford and were marching south-east together. Margaret and I knelt in the chapel and prayed that God would bring them victory, for another disaster like Wakefield did not bear thinking about. Then we heard that unexpectedly the Lancastrians had retreated back into Bedfordshire in the hope of persuading Londoners that they meant them no harm. Only days later Edward and Dick slipped past them and rode into London at the head of a vast army to be welcomed by gates thrown wide open and the deafening cheers of the citizens.

  After he had seen his men safely camped in Clerkenwell Fields Edward came straight to Baynard’s Castle. Margaret and I were in the courtyard to greet him as he rode in wearing a smile nearly as wide as the Thames and a new blue jupon over his armour bearing the image of a white rose surrounded by the sun’s golden rays. Many of his followers had silver badges of a similar design. When we had greeted each other amid the applause of the household, Edward went to change into more comfortable apparel and a meal was served to us privately in front of a roaring fire in the great chamber.

  Margaret mentioned the new badge. ‘What does it signify, Edward?’ she asked.

  ‘Did you not hear about the remarkable omen before the battle at Mortimer’s Cross?’ Edward asked in amazement. ‘I thought the story would have been all round the country with the speed of a thunderbolt.’ He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Let me have the pleasure of telling you about it then. We had word that Jasper Tudor was bringing his force from Pembroke to Ludlow and we waited for them at a place I had chosen long ago as the perfect location for a battle if Wigmore Castle was ever to come under threat from the south. I had fought a battle there a dozen times in my head so I knew exactly how to go about it. It is in a valley where two roads cross and the locals now call it Mortimer’s Cross because they call me Lord Mortimer.’

  ‘But you are Duke of York now,’ Margaret put in a little irritably. ‘Surely they realize that.’

  Edward laughed. ‘The people of the Welsh March pledged their loyalty to the Mortimers hundreds of years ago and are averse to change. I do not care what they call me so long as they follow me with a will, which I am glad to say they do. Anyway when we got there at dawn it was freezing and to keep them warm I set the men to digging ditches and making traps and when the clouds suddenly cleared in mid morning there were seen to be three suns in the sky. All fighting-men are superstitious and Welshmen particularly so and someone started a rumour that this was a sign of God’s displeasure. I did not want them all downing weapons and heading for the hills so I leaped up on a rock and made a rousing speech about how the three suns were a sign of the Holy Trinity – Father, Son and Holy Ghost – and that they signified that the Almighty was with us and would help us to win the battle.’ He spread his arms wide to emphasize his point. ‘Which of course He did. So I have adapted the white rose and surrounded it with the sun’s rays as my personal badge of affinity. I am the Sun of York! Good, is it not?’

  As Margaret clapped and nodded her agreement, I gazed at this son of mine who seemed so genuinely possessed of divine grace. He was so quick of mind and eye, so confident and sure, that people simply did not doubt his ability to achieve whatever he said he would. I had no doubt that he would sally forth to his next confrontation with the Lancastrians surrounded by God’s rays of grace and men who would follow him to the ends of the earth. I would never show disloyalty by saying so in public but I could not help seeing a quality in my son which had never been evident in his father. Apostasy had been Richard’s downfall but I did not believe that Edward’s followers would ever consider betraying him.

  I sat back for a few minutes, watching and listening as he and Margaret laughe
d and joked together and thought for the first time how alike they were, both in looks and character. They had been separated a great deal as children but I hoped that Edward would come to realize what a great confidant he might make of his sister and she of him. However I was jolted out of my reverie when I heard Margaret suddenly pose the question I had been avoiding like a bat avoids a torch flame.

  ‘Are you going to be king, Edward? Everyone in London seems to think you are.’

  Edward rolled his eyes. ‘Who knows? But God only gives a man one life and I intend to make the most of mine, so I will not refuse a crown if it is offered to me.’

  ‘If the lords have any sense they will offer it,’ said his sister.

  Edward regarded her with a lop-sided smile, head on one side. ‘Do you know, Meg, I rather think they might.’

  I was reminded that four years earlier Edward had refused to adhere to Margaret’s request to be called by her full name. ‘The world may call you Margaret.’ He had said the word in a comic pompous voice. ‘But I shall always think of you as Meg. So I shall call you Meg and you can call me Ned. It will remind us that we are special to each other – blood kin. But, Meg, when I am king and you are a queen, please do not call me King Ned.’ The idea had caused them to collapse into giggles. At the time there had been no question of Edward ever being king.

  The following day we were all leaving the chapel after hearing masses for the souls of Richard and Edmund when the steward came to tell us that a deputation had arrived from the Great Council and asked to meet with Edward. ‘I took them to the Great Hall, your grace,’ he said to me. ‘There are quite a number of them, including the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Earl of Warwick and your brother, Lord Fauconberg.’

  Edward and I exchanged glances. His face, already solemn after the requiem masses, went quite pale and I saw him briefly grab Margaret’s hand and squeeze it.

  ‘Have one of the casks of Bordeaux tapped,’ I told the Steward. ‘And Lent or not, tell the cooks to make some honey wafers. We may have something to celebrate.’