“Your Grace.” Warwick inclined his head. “Have you heard what has happened?”
“I have.”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“What do you expect me to do? Mount a rescue operation?”
“Tell me this: How much did the King know of this evil work?”
Buckingham’s eyes slid away. He pursed his lips. He doesn’t like what happened, Warwick thought, but he’ll put up with it, as they all will.
“I would advise you to let well enough alone,” Buckingham said. “You might be surprised to know that I sympathise with York’s aims – the government is in need of purging – but I mislike his methods. He cannot range through the kingdom putting out manifestos that incite the commons to support him and making demands of the King.”
“And do you like Somerset’s methods?” Warwick asked scathingly. “That whoreson has besmirched my honour and the honour of the King, although I doubt he cares as much about that as I do!”
Buckingham stiffened. “You are very proud, Warwick. Let me caution you to guard your tongue. An unwise tongue can be a dangerous instrument. If you wish to prosper, do not speak disrespectfully of our Sovereign Lord.”
Warwick turned on his heel for fear his unwise tongue might reveal what he truly thought of the weak and feckless King. As he strode away, Buckingham called after him: “No harm will come to him, my word on it.”
“Oh, your word,” Warwick muttered.
Chapter 2
March 1452 – London
The Grey Friars owned a house conveniently located within the city of London. The Earl of Warwick had leased it on the understanding that he would continue to lodge any visiting brethren who had business in the city. His father owned a fine house called The Herber in Dowgate where he could have lodged if he had he chosen to, but pride demanded that a man of his standing have a town house of his own. Besides, his normal household had mushroomed to some two thousand persons, which precluded his sharing accommodations with his father without first giving it a severe pruning. The size of a man’s household was a symbol of his status. The Earl of Warwick’s was princely.
The city of London was only about a mile wide by half a mile between the walls, so it was no great distance between his Grey Friars' house and The Herber where he was bound on this chilly March morning. Men doffed their caps as he passed. Women bobbed their heads. Some gave him the come-hither look that men of his distinction attracted as pollen attracts bees. He looked as if he owned the world or a large part of it. An escort of one hundred men in scarlet livery accompanied him as he rode under the Bear and Ragged Staff banner of his house. Among them was his almoner who distributed coins indiscriminately along the way to eager-eyed citizens. A scattering of silver coins could result in a brawl, even broken bones, but the victors cheered him and blessed his name, while the losers picked themselves up and hoped for better luck next time. Small boys ran alongside his horse, jostling one another. He was becoming renowned for his generosity. He lavishly entertained the great men of court, city and church and the remains of his feasts were gathered up and distributed to the hundreds of poor who gathered at his gates. Not that they were all poor. Fat monks could be spotted among them. Even some upstanding citizens weren’t averse to dining on the leavings of Warwick’s table.
Warwick owned land in eighteen counties, over a hundred manors and more than a score of castles, the principal being mighty Warwick Castle. He drew a huge income from his estates and was able to call upon multitudes of fighting men in need. In due course, the Salisbury lands in the north would be his also. He was rich, young, energetic, and it seemed to him the world was his for the taking.
He had his wife to thank for these blessings. He had married Anne, daughter of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick because she had a handsome dowry and a prestigious name. As his father-in-law had three daughters by his first wife and a son, Henry, by his second, Anne’s mother, Richard Neville could hope for little from his marriage without a stroke of luck. Not for the last time in his life, a stroke of luck smote him. First Henry died prematurely, leaving as his heir a small daughter. She too was not destined to enjoy her riches and upon her death two years later, Anne, as the only full sister of Henry, the last earl, was declared his rightful heir. Naturally, this did not sit at all well with the three older half-sisters and their husbands, one of whom happened to be the Duke of Somerset. A court battle ensued amid some nasty in-family squabbling. The law found in favour of Anne and her husband, who would be master of the Beauchamp and Despenser estates in right of his wife, making him a very wealthy young man.
As he had chortled to his adversaries once the matter was settled: ‘Almighty God only bestows his blessings on the most worthy.’
He rode east along Thames Street, the Tower looming ahead. On his right were the warehouses where the goods offloaded from ships were stored. Rising above them he could see the crenellated walls of Baynard’s Castle. Originally it had been intended as the sentinel partner of the Tower of London, with the city snug and safe between them. Its defensive aspects had long since fallen into disuse and now it was the Duke of York’s city house on the Thames, where he was being held under bond.
Three weeks had elapsed since Blackheath while they debated what to do with him at Westminster. Many thought he should be in the Tower, but Henry wouldn’t go so far. There was a rumour – Warwick doubted there was any truth in it – that York’s eldest son was putting himself at the head of an army to march on London and rescue his father.
In the stable yard at The Herber, in the chill of the March morning, the Earl of Salisbury was sparring with one of his knights, who was both taller and younger. Face flushed and sweating, sword in hand, Salisbury wore a battered cuirass that had seen long service in France. Warwick and his brothers used to examine their father’s harness and weapons with awe when they were lads. Their father had a story for every nick on his sword. As a boy of fifteen, he had been there during England’s most glorious hour when the army of Henry V, decimated by hunger and disease and outnumbered at least four to one, had snatched an unexpected and overwhelming victory from the French. It was a fact that more of the French nobility had died on the field than English commons. Salisbury was immensely popular with young knights who loved to hear his tales, although his sons had long since tired of them. Particularly in these days of inglorious defeat, it was something to be able to say: ‘I was at Agincourt.’
His opponent wasn’t holding anything back. Warwick couldn’t help but be impressed by his father’s quick movements and the power of his strokes. In spite of being over fifty and having a gimpy leg, Salisbury was in fine physical shape and intended to stay that way.
There were a few spectators, mostly stable hands and lower echelon servants, stamping their feet and tucking arms into armpits.
Despite his application to other matters, Salisbury saw his son at once. “What brings you here on this fine morning?”
“I’ve been thinking about things concerning York and Somerset.”
“Still sitting in your gut like a dish of spoiled eels, is it?”
“It is. I mean to pay that whoreson back.” He broke off, wincing, as his father swung his sword in both hands in a downward slice. It was not the four-foot long weapon of the battlefield; nevertheless, it had two edges and a point and was capable of inflicting damage. The knight brought his sword up to block the blow, but there was such power behind it that he staggered back and Salisbury forced the point of his sword down.
“Get over it, son. We’ve enough trouble with the Percys without feuding with the Beauforts,” Salisbury snarled as he stared into his opponent’s eyes, their breath mingling, faces contorted with the effort.
He put his shoulder to the other man’s chest and pushed him away. The knight stepped back, and his sword came down at the same instant, Salisbury getting his own up to meet it just in time. The naked blades scraped along each other’s length, and once again the two men hissed into one another’
s faces, locked in a deadly embrace with the blades between them. What they said Warwick couldn’t hear, but by their looks, it seemed they were cursing each other to eternal damnation.
“I will not. He has besmirched our honour.”
Salisbury shot him a glance, in which there was considerable irritation. Warwick caught his breath, and the onlookers murmured as the knight took advantage of the earl’s distraction in an attempt to pierce his belly. Apparently ready for him, Salisbury sidestepped, swivelled on the balls of his feet allowing the impetus of the other’s assault to carry him past, and then gave the unprotected buttocks a quick swipe with the flat of his sword.
“Could have carved you another arsehole, Hugh,” he said with a grin, and the watchers capered and howled with laughter.
“The one I’ve got is adequate for my needs,” the other man riposted cheerfully.
“Do you think we might discuss this when you’re not quite so… occupied?” Warwick said dryly.
“Enough.” Salisbury thrust the point of his sword into the ground. Someone handed him a coarse towel. He scrubbed his face and neck vigorously and started toward the kitchen door.
“Still an old warhorse,” said Warwick.
“Not so old. Fifty-one is only old when you’re twenty-three. I’m as sound in wind and limb as you and a good deal better looking.”
Warwick laughed.
“What have you in mind?”
“What would York say if we were to offer him our support?”
His father grunted and said nothing as they entered the kitchen, still redolent with the smell of that morning’s baking, and went through into the great hall. As Warwick straddled a bench, his father called for ale and a squire hurried forward to remove the earl’s battered cuirass. His chamberlain approached, but he waved the man away.
“I would imagine he’d get down on his knees and thank the saints for their benevolence,” he said, sitting opposite his son. “But why should we?”
“First, he’s kin.”
“So is Somerset. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“It seems to me we’re going to have to make a choice sooner or later: either York or Somerset. Several young men already dog Somerset's heels, eager to use him to make their way: Exeter, Wiltshire, Shrewsbury’s son, not to mention his own sons who are of age to take their places in the government. There’s no place for me among such as these. Besides, in spite of the fact that he’s survived the loss of Normandy with his head still where it's supposed to be, his handling of the war proved him to be inept. He's one of those idiot parvenus who believe that a noble name is all that’s required to bring the world to his feet. If he doesn’t end up like Suffolk with his head hacked off he’ll be lucky. I’d do it myself given half a chance. When he goes down, I don’t want to go down with him.” Warwick paused, his expression changing as if he’d just tasted something foul. “Then there’s Blackheath. That whoreson used us to further his own ends. I’ll not be used by any man.”
The ale had arrived, and Salisbury took a long drink. His throat rippled as he swallowed and then forced an appreciative belch. “There’s the real reason. Your pride’s injured, your honour tarnished and you’ve been made to look a fool. You want revenge.”
“All true.”
“But we don’t have to take sides. We can remain neutral.”
“Can we? If we don’t support York, we’ll find ourselves in Somerset’s camp, like it or not. York is heir to the throne, and yet he’s treated like an outcast. The big difference between York and Somerset is that the one has unattainable ideals, the other no ideals whatsoever. Given a chance, York will try to reform the government. Somerset couldn’t care less. With our help, York can neutralise Somerset and do it.”
Salisbury shook his shaggy grey head. “He stands alone. Look at the support he had at Blackheath. Cobham, a Kentishman and Lollard, and that renegade Devon. He’s put himself outside the pale. No respectable man is going to stand with him after that. My great fear is that if we support him, we’ll find ourselves in opposition to all our peers and perhaps one day, as he did at Blackheath, in arms against the King.”
Aye, then there was Henry, Warwick thought. How much did he know about what happened at Blackheath? He had assured them that York wouldn’t be molested, and they had passed on that assurance. Did his word mean nothing? Had someone leant down to the royal ear once they were gone and persuaded him that York didn’t deserve a hearing? Or had Somerset acted on his own initiative? One could never tell with Henry. He was a reed, bending to the prevailing wind. Warwick despised him for it.
Although she had earned her share of it, the unpopularity that should have gone to the King for the disasters of his reign was heaped on the slender shoulders of his Queen. The people loved Henry for his gentleness and piety – the very qualities, in Warwick’s opinion, that made him such a dismal failure as King. So the Queen, who was French, who had brought no dowry to the marriage, not a groat, whose price was Anjou and Maine, grew larger in the public imagination as the author of all the kingdom’s problems.
Suffolk paid for that rotten bargain with his life. Impeached by parliament, exiled by Henry to save him, captured, head hacked off with a rusty axe, body flung on the sands. Noblemen weren’t supposed to die at the coarse grubby hands of common men, but there was no doubt that he had deserved death for his disastrous policies.
Warwick had yet another grudge against the King. No respecter of the law, Somerset continued to contest on behalf of his wife Warwick’s ownership of the Beauchamp lands in South Wales, particularly the lordship of Glamorgan. When Somerset appealed to him, Henry had granted the lands to his favourite, giving Warwick notice that should the opportunity arise, those half-siblings of his wife would be on him like wolves on a deer carcass, tearing and rending and running off with whatever chunks they could get. Warwick swore he would yield nothing even if that meant armed conflict against the King himself. No one took what belonged to the Earl of Warwick.
But he said nothing of this to his father, who was loyal. “It doesn’t have to be that way. We’ve talked about this. He should never have got himself into a position from which there was no way out without loss of face.”
“Which doesn’t speak well of his political acumen.”
“You know him better than I. What do you think of him?”
Salisbury considered, stroking his bristled chin. “Not brilliant but competent. He has a good head for the plodding routine of administration, for detail and organisation, as he proved by the success he made of his time in Ireland. He didn’t put a foot wrong in France either. Politically, perhaps not ruthless enough and a ditherer. He has a stubborn streak a mile wide, but who hasn’t? A decent man, withal.”
“That’s not a great portrait of a leader but still better than Somerset. Look, why don’t we go and see him? Let’s hear what he has to say, what his goals are and how he intends to implement them.”
“We’re probably the last people he wants to see, but we’ll give it a try. Give me a few minutes.” Salisbury slapped his hands down on his knees, rose and went off to change his clothes.
Chapter 3
March 1452 – Baynard’s Castle
Work, that was the thing. Work exorcised brooding, and there was always so much to be done. Like all great landowners, York had a council to administer his vast estates, allowing him the freedom to climb the political ladder in pursuit of power and yet more lands. There were stewards to run his far-flung castles, many estate managers and hundreds of clerks. Although his council dealt with a minutia of day to day concerns, couriers raced back and forth between the members and wherever the Duke happened to be, keeping him informed of developments and soliciting his direction on certain larger issues. Even when a virtual prisoner, there was always an abundance of business needing his attention. He was deluged by the concerns of various officials, expected to host any visitors who came to pay their respects, as well as having his chambers clogged by petitioners and other sup
plicants.
“I won’t see them,” he said to his chamberlain. “Send them away.”
His mouth was deeply inverted. The memory of that night at Blackheath still rankled. It was the worst of his life. The very thought of it put him in a sour mood. The last thing he wanted was to see those who were responsible for his humiliation. Since then he had been under house arrest in Baynard’s Castle, permitted every freedom except to leave the city. It could be worse. Somerset was agitating to have him sent to the Tower of London but Henry, usually so malleable, wouldn’t allow it.
Still, he was virtually imprisoned in his house, waiting to hear what his punishment would be, with nothing to do but oversee the administration of his estates. He wished Henry would just get on with it so that he could get back to the north and lick his wounds.
The door opened, and his wife entered. A lovely woman, Cecily had been known as the Rose of Raby in her youth. Childbearing had thickened her figure, but since she was tall, she carried it well, and her every movement was imbued with great dignity. A sagging jaw line and a network of tiny lines around her sky-blue eyes had marred her beauty but little in the eyes of her doting husband. She was a handsome and regal woman.
York sighed as if irritated by yet another interruption. Ignoring the dark look he gave her, she went to the window and looked out. “Another dismal day. Do you think spring will ever come?”
This Sun of York Page 2
