Not long before the feast a creature of Warwick's dug up an old and utterly false tale that the Duchess Cicely had once taken an archer for a lover and that her eldest son was thus a bastard. King Edward and all his heirs were disinherited and his brother Clarence officially declared the eldest legitimate son of the Duke of York and heir should Henry's line fail. Warwick awaited the arrival of Queen Margaret and her son, Clarence weighed his chances with sidelong looks at the powerful Earl, and Elizabeth nursed her babe. With his coming nothing could shake her confidence that Edward would return.
At Baynards Castle the Duchess Cicely sat alone in her bedchamber, rigid in her chair, her proud and beautiful face contorted, and when Clarence came to ask her to see him that he might explain his difficult position, she turned icy blue eyes on her usher. ‘You may tell the Duke of Clarence,’ she said clearly, ‘that if King Edward is not his father's son, then I am not the Duke of Clarence's mother.’ With which cryptic remark she turned her back to the door and stared unseeingly out at the busy waterway below her windows.
CHAPTER SIX
On a night of storm, similar to that of his departure, when the rain lashed at taut sails, when the wind hurled the little fleet towards the unseen shore and soldiers stumbled about the decks, King Edward returned to England. The port of Ravenspur was almost derelict, but with William Hastings as ever by his side, he set foot on the rotten planks, jumped ashore and regardless of the cap blown from his head, called out, ‘Well, William, we are come home! And by Our Lady we will not be driven out again.’
‘Never!’ Hastings was wringing out the edge of his cloak which had trailed in the sea. ‘What a tempest! It is only God's mercy that has brought us safe through.’
‘Aye, and I thank Him for it.’ Edward turned to watch his small company of soldiers come ashore. ‘I pray it has pleased Him to keep Richard and Anthony safe. They must have been swept further up the coast.’
‘But close enough to reach land safely. We must find shelter, sire.’
‘I'm drenched to the skin,’ Edward agreed. ‘There should be a village nearby. Do you realize, William, that this place is where Henry's grandfather, old Bolingbroke, landed after King Richard seized his inheritance? It must be seventy years gone. He said he had come only to claim his duchy but he took the throne. Well, two can play at that game and what a Lancaster did then a Yorkist can do now. I come to claim my dukedom as a liegeman of King Henry, eh?’
‘For as long as it suits you?’
‘Until we see which the wind blows – and please God not as it has done tonight.’
They left the sailors to unload the ship and in half an hour had found a cluster of cottages. Lord Hastings banged on the door of the largest, mean enough though it was, and when a frightened tousle-haired man appeared clad only in a rough shirt, said, ‘The Duke of York needs shelter and food. Open up, fellow.’
The peasant had no idea who the Duke might be and gaped at the wet and bedraggled men at his door. ‘For God's sake, gather your wits,’ Hastings ordered and pushed the door wider open. Inside a terrified woman clutched a shawl about her shoulders and she stepped backwards as Hastings pushed past her man.
‘Good dame,’ he said pleasantly, ‘we intend you no harm, but we need food and to dry ourselves. Make up your fire and fetch us some supper if you please.’
Still speechless the pair moved, the man to stir up the half-dead embers, the woman to find bread and ale and a slab of cold fish from their own meal. There was no meat but she soon had eggs broiling and there was fresh bread and a good cheese to finish off.
‘My thanks.’ The King took a stool by the table and proceeded to demolish their stores for at least a week. Then he looked at their frowsty bed, grinned at Hastings, and rolling himself in his cloak fell asleep by the fire.
In the morning Richard appeared, having marched south from his landing place, and was soundly embraced, and two hours later Anthony came up, wet and dirty but cheerful.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘men have achieved great things with fewer soldiers behind them than we have. Where do you make for, my lord?’
‘York,’ Edward answered. ‘Our own city, eh, Dickon?’
‘Aye,’ Richard agreed. ‘I have many friends there.’
But his friends it seemed were cautious, and not until reassured that Richard's brother had come only as Duke of York did the Recorder and chief citizens open their gates to Edward and his followers. Unable to restrain his amusement Edward shouted, ‘God save King Henry!’ and walked through Bootham Bar towards the Minster.
‘These Yorkshiremen of yours are careful fellows,’ he said to his brother. ‘Whichever way the cat jumps they'll sit tight with their merchandise and their guilds, and the devil can take aught else.’
‘Yorkshiremen are always careful,’ Gloucester agreed, ‘but I'll swear they are loyal at heart.’
That night in the Recorder's house Edward and his captains held a conference. ‘We have Montagu in the north with a larger force than ours,’ Hastings said. ‘But will Percy bring out the men of Northumberland for us?’
Edward was tackling a better supper than he had eaten the previous night. ‘God knows. He owes me much but he has no valour in him. I'll not rely on him.’
‘Rely on the men here,’ Richard said. ‘We are near our own Yorkshire castles, and the knights who hold land from us will rally to our cause.’
Before they left York their little force was much augmented and as they marched south to Doncaster and then to Nottingham still the army grew. No attack came from the rear, though Edward's scouts brought the news that the Earl of Northumberland had not moved from his estates.
‘Just as I thought,’ was Edward's comment. ‘He will sit there until he sees who wins this fight. And my lord Montagu?’
‘He marches, sir,’ another answered, ‘but slowly. I fell in with some of his men, pretending to join them, and they say he will not allow his captains near enough to attack you, that he remembers the days of his friendship with you better than this new alliance with his brother and Queen Margaret.’
Edward rubbed his chin, his face softening. ‘I always liked John Neville. But he is still behind us, and my lord Oxford at Newark with my brotherin-law Exeter. I hope Oxford does not rely on him for any positive action.’
At Nottingham they learned that the Earl of Warwick was at Coventry. ‘A little strategy is needed here,’ Edward said and ordered a sudden march to the east. Oxford and Exeter panicked and fled and at once Edward wheeled the army and hurried to Coventry. There he set a coronet once more on his helm and sent his herald to proclaim him King of England and to offer Warwick the choice between a pardon for life or immediate battle.
In a room high in a tower the man they called Kingmaker paced in an uncertainty born of caution, of years of devious planning, of a dislike of the physical reality of battle. Would his allies reach him soon, he demanded of his own scouts, was his son-in-law marching from the west, was the Earl of Devon on the way? No one was able to answer him, but the same question occupied the besiegers below.
‘Where is George?’ Richard sat his horse beside Edward's, staring at the walls, the barred gates. ‘Could it be that he has joined Warwick already? Or does he mean to return to us?’
‘For once I am inclined to believe he does,’ Edward said, ‘but I doubt if he has had time to reach this place. Our sister Margaret swears he regrets his alliance with Warwick. Poor George, Warwick cast him off like an old shoe. It is the She-Wolf’s cub who is his favourite son-in-law now.’
A slight tremor passed over Richard's face but he said merely, ‘The boy is old enough to fight, but will he and his mother come now that you are back?’
‘Oh, they will come.’ Edward glanced at his brother. ‘And if God wills we shall make a widow of the Lady Anne.’
‘The sooner they come the better,’ Anthony put in and there was for once no trace of good humour about him. ‘I want only to meet the murderers of my father and my brother.’
It was not to be at Coventry, however. The Earl did nothing, and hearing that George had reached Banbury Edward rode to meet him. Clarence had brought a considerable force but about a mile from the dust raised by the marching of Edward's troops he called a halt and rode forward with only half a dozen knights in attendance. Edward saw, and summoning Richard and a few of his own spears went forward to meet his brother.
There was a brief pause. It was a bright gusty April day with clouds scudding across a blue sky and patches of bright sunshine slanting through the still leafless branches to pattern the muddy road. Then, regardless of the dirt, Clarence dismounted and threw himself on his knees.
‘Your pardon, sire,’ he cried out and managed a few emotive tears. ‘I have been misled, foolish, beguiled. You were ever a kind and noble brother; forgive me, I beg you. Pardon one who will never do you ill again as long as he lives.’
‘By God,’ Anthony said behind his hand to Hastings, ‘the words slide easily enough from his tongue. I would not trust him until tomorrow, let alone the rest of his life.’
Hastings answered in a low voice but sharply. ‘Don't you see? Edward must either have him executed as a traitor on this very spot or else forgive him. And we need his men.’
Edward, if he had had misgivings, did not show them. He raised his brother and embraced him and then Richard came. The tall elegant Clarence put his arms about him and said, ‘Well, little brother, I hear you have become quite a soldier. I should have had to look to myself had we met in battle.’
‘You are welcome home,’ Richard said. The words had stung. Could George never do anything but mock and make light of everything and everyone?
Clarence turned and with his arm still linked with Richard's asked, ‘What now, sire? Where do we go?’
‘London,’ Edward answered. ‘My lord of Warwick may sit at Coventry for as long as he likes, but the Anjou woman and her son are on the move. I must be in my capital before either of them can set foot there.’
On Maundy Thursday Bess sat with the baby prince on her knee, rocking him gently and singing to him while Elizabeth read from a book of poems. She was thinking of her own babes, growing fast no doubt at Ashwellthorpe. She longed to see them, longed for a sight of Humphrey. She had had a letter from him, undated and with no address, brought by a chapman who had it from a merchant travelling from Dover. It seemed possible he was on his own land in Kent, but the letter had been a long time in reaching her and there was no knowing if he had moved on. He wrote cheerfully, telling her that he was in health and prayed that she was too, and that the good health of the kingdom might soon permit them to be reunited. She knew what he meant.
Every sanctuary in the city was crammed with Yorkists only waiting for Edward's return. Since they had heard of the King's landing and arrival in York the air of suspense had become almost intolerable in these quiet rooms where she with the Queen and the others had now passed five long weary months.
Once she had asked the Queen if she might petition the Earl of Warwick to allow her to return to Ashwellthorpe, but Elizabeth had answered, ‘Don't leave me, Bess. It cannot be for much longer. Edward will come, I know he will.’
Bess gave in. Elizabeth in distress was very different from Elizabeth in her rich and opulent palace. Restlessly Bess rose and carried the babe to the window. There was nothing to see except grey walls, a scrap of green grass, one solitary almond tree. And then, so suddenly that the whole room seemed to reverberate, the great bell of the Abbey began to toll.
The Queen let her book fall. ‘There's no bell due at this hour. What can it be?’
The Duchess by the fire began, ‘We have heard such sudden chimes before and it was not –’ when Lady Scrope cried out, ‘Listen! Listen!’
One by one the bells of London were taking up the call. They clashed out over the city, over Fleet Street, along the river to Westminster to be answered by all the Abbey chimes, ringing out loud into the spring air. The women stared at each other and the Duchess in one sharp movement crossed herself.
‘Oh, what is it, what is it?’ Lady Scrope too ran to the window and Elizabeth rose, gripping her hands together.
‘It is the King. I know it is. They would not ring like this for Henry. Bess, go – find out –’
Bess handed the babe to Lady Scrope and then gathering her skirts pelted down the stair, across the little court and out by the door with its great sanctuary knocker. In the street people were hurrying about, a crowd beginning to line the road from the city, a hubbub of talk growing as the news passed from mouth to mouth.
Bess caught hold of a woman. ‘What is happening? Oh, pray tell me.’
The woman turned. She was young and respectably dressed, her white coif hiding most of her dark hair, eyes bright in a pretty face. Seeing the lady who asked the question so urgently she answered, ‘The King is coming, dame. They say he's almost here.’
‘The King? Which King?’
‘Why, bless you, our King – Edward himself. He has come back to London as we always knew he would. My husband, who's an important man in the Mercers Guild, said to my brother, the one that's usher to –’
Bess stopped the flow. ‘Forgive me, good mistress, but do you know any more? Has he won a battle? How is it that he is here?''
‘I've heard naught as to how. All that matters is that he is coming. A fellow has been galloping round the streets to say he will be at the Abbey soon and the crown is to be set on his head once more.’
‘I must go.’ Bess was between laughing and crying. ‘I must go and tell the Queen.’
‘The Queen?’ The young woman stared. ‘You are with the Queen?’
‘I've been with her since the King left. I am Dame Bourchier, one of her ladies.’
‘And I am Mistress Shore. My husband is William Shore and we have never stirred in our loyalty to King Edward. Pray tell her grace that we in the city love him. But,’ Mistress Shore warned as the crowd jostled them, ‘you'll not get through now. Look at the people packed by the sanctuary entrance.’
Bess glanced behind her. ‘No, you're right. I'll have to go another way. God keep you, mistress, and my thanks.’ She tried to push through to one side but the crowd was growing at every moment and when someone called out ‘To the Abbey!’ she found herself swept along on a human tide, every man and woman caught up in the general rejoicing, the desire to see what they could. They were swarming towards the great church, determined to be there to watch Edward re-crowned, and Bess, jostled and pushed, was tumbled in with the rest. She took shelter by a pillar, her back against the protective stone, and in that high arched and sacred place, its stones covering the bones of past kings, she remembered to whisper her gratitude to Almighty God who had brought this miracle to pass. The sheer and utter relief, the triumph, was such that she no longer cared where the Earl of Warwick might be, nor Queen Margaret, nor any of their enemies. Edward was coming, he was free, he was back in the capital of his kingdom. All his followers would come out of hiding, she and Humphrey could be reunited with each other, with the children, and this dreary winter would be forgotten in such a spring.
By the door the hubbub grew. A company of archers came, pushing the people aside, making a passage through, and then Edward entered. He walked slowly down the aisle, his face grave, yet there was, Bess thought, a blaze of inner intensity about him, a strength that spilled out and spread over them all. She wanted to cry out, to reach her hand towards him, but she could not move from her pillar, only sink to her knees as he passed. Behind him came his brothers, his chief friends, while the hastily assembled choir began to sing the Te Deum, some of the boys without even time to comb their hair. Then Humphrey's uncle, the aged Archbishop, summoned from Lambeth with a speed that left him breathless, set the crown once more on Edward's head.
The whole assembly burst into a roar of acclamation and the King turned to face them all, a smile on his face. Bess gazed at him and the tears ran down her cheeks, all her love rising, threatening to choke her in this moment
of joy. He was King again, his enemies would be scattered, but was it not the man above all that she loved?
He paused only for a moment, then he handed the crown back to the Archbishop and left the church by a side door. He is gone to Elizabeth, Bess thought. She found herself trembling and leaned against the pillar for support, her storm of emotion heightened by the infectious rejoicing of the folk crammed about her. Slowly the church emptied, many pausing to light thanksgiving candles. Bess lit one herself at the Confessor's shrine, and looked for the mercer's pretty wife, but she did not see her again. Then she made her way back to sanctuary.
There she found the lodgings that had been her home for so many months awash with excitement. Edward had his arm about the Queen and she was gazing up at him, her face the lovelier for the present delight. Her mother and Lady Scrope were plying him with eager questions and the nurse had brought his five-month-old son to him for the first time.
‘Edward!’ he said and without releasing Elizabeth took the child in the crook of his other arm. ‘He's a beautiful boy, my heart, as I would expect of such a mother. Why, I believe he favours me.’
‘He does,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘From the day he was born he has been the image of you. Oh, Edward, how I have waited for this moment.’
‘And I.’ He saw Bess by the door. ‘Come in, come in. I am very glad to see you that I may thank you too for your care of my dear wife. She tells me you have not left her in all this while.’
Bess made a deep curtsey, her cheeks filling with colour. ‘No, your grace, I could not.’
‘You shall be rewarded for such faithful service. And Sir Humphrey, do you know where he is?’ She shook her head and he went on, ‘Well, now that I am back he will most certainly be riding in to join me, and soon if I know him.’
‘But you have not told us everything,’ the Duchess said. ‘Let the nurse take your babe, sire, and tell us all. Where is that poor creature, Henry?’
The Sun in Splendour (The Plantagenets Book 6) Page 10
