Exeter, on the other hand, was entirely unrepentant and clearly not a bit ashamed that his wife had caught him in a despicable act.
“What do you care where I find satisfaction?”
“They are gentlewomen and your sisters-in-law” She strove to remain calm in spite of her outrage and revulsion, hoping to stir up some embers of decency. “It’s your responsibility to take care of them. How can you treat them like that?”
“They’re my brothers’ property and so long as my brothers don’t object why should you? It has nothing to do with you. Besides, they’re a pair of sluts. They love what we do to them.”
“Including the beatings?”
“Better mind your manners, wife, or you’ll get some of the same.”
Chapter 11
December 1454 – Windsor Castle
The Mermaid in Chepe, one of the better class taverns, served an excellent saddle of beef on Saturdays to catch the crowd coming from the Smithfield horse fair. Warwick was there for his dinner and to take the pulse of the city. He sat alone but pressed close to his table was a crowd of citizens wanting to know what measures the Duke had implemented.
“My lord father is chancellor. My Lord of Essex is the constable, and we have a council of good and capable men. They will make sure those under them do their jobs competently and honestly.” He cut off a piece of beef and thrust it into his mouth on the point of his dagger, while the London men murmured their approval amongst themselves. “However, these things take time, gentlemen. Two decades were required to bring our poor England to her knees. At least a couple of years will be required to see her standing tall and straight again.”
The murmurs were less approving this time.
The Duke, as Warwick had good cause to know, was working hard, yet the problems he had to tackle were too well entrenched and too complex for overnight results. For the first three months of his protectorate, he had spent all his time and energy setting up his new government, garnering support, overcoming opposition, filling the seats on the council and working out a policy to put before that council. He believed that the troubles would be halved with a properly functioning government.
“Clean up the chancery, and I’ll be happy,” said an ironmonger. “The fees and bribes a man has to pay for a scrap o’ parchment is a mortal sin.”
“Something has to be done about trade,” a wool merchant said. “My lord, England’s wealth is on the backs of our sheep, yet markets are allowed to dry up because no one in government will put himself to the trouble to see to the renewal of trade agreements and treaties. Every year I’m able to buy less from my growers, yet even so, my warehouse is stacked with surplus wool.”
“All will be done to your contentment in good time,” Warwick said, mopping beef juice with a piece of bread.
The door opened and closed, and the Londoners shuffled aside as a man wearing the White Rose badge of York pushed unceremoniously through them. He bowed to Warwick. “My lord, I have an urgent message for you from his Grace.”
“I’ll come.” He rose. He had almost finished his beef anyway.
Wiping his knife on a napkin, he returned it to its sheath and finished his wine in one gulp. Disappointed, the Londoners stood aside for him as he preceded York’s man to the door. Even so, some followed in the hope of catching a word of news. Warwick closed the door firmly behind him.
“Fetch my horse,” he called to his dozen men who were loitering in the stable yard and turned to the messenger. “What is it?”
“My lord, his Grace bids you ride to Windsor. He has learned that the King has recovered his wits and desires confirmation.”
Damn the man, was Warwick’s first reaction. If true, it’s all over for us. We’ll be out of office, and everything we’ve done will be undone. It had been almost a year and a half since Henry had lost his senses. People had stopped asking about him. In London he was half-forgotten.
It was then about noon. If Warwick rode hard, he should be able to make Windsor before dark. Mounting his horse, he set a fast pace for Newgate, his escort falling in before and behind, every man dressed in the scarlet of his house, with the standard of the Bear and Ragged staff streaming overhead.
The afternoon was shorter than he had anticipated and it was quite dark before he reached Windsor. He hurried to the King’s apartments. The bedchamber door was open, the presence chamber full of courtiers, along with many who had no business being in the royal apartments. Even lower echelon servants were peering over shoulders trying to see through the door before scampering off to spread the news among their fellows.
Warwick looked around and spied the new constable and York’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Essex, a good-natured, hearty man with a comfortable paunch.
“Is it true?”
Essex found a smile, a rather pained one. “Good news, is it not?”
Warwick blew out his cheeks. “Oh, aye,” he said sourly. All the way to Windsor he had held on to a vestige of hope. “So what happened?”
“The story is that when his body servant was undressing him for bed yestereve, he suddenly turned his head and looked at the man. Just like that. His servant was so shocked that he screamed, which caused Henry to scream.”
“Have you seen him? How is he? What do the physicians say?”
“He’s confused, baffled. It was Master Hobbes who explained the affliction of the past sixteen months. That made him weep. It transpired that he has no knowledge of his months of darkness. It was as if he had just awakened from a night’s sleep, a sleep, he said, peopled by vague images.”
“Daft Harry!” Warwick growled. “Why couldn’t he stay asleep? Now he’ll ruin everything.”
“Guard your tongue, my lord.” Essex looked nervously around. Many people at court made it their business to listen in to private conversations in the hope of learning information that could be sold either for coin or favour.
Warwick left him and pushed through the crowd to the bedchamber. Henry was sitting in the same chair he had occupied for several hours of every day since he had come to Windsor. A cap covered his bald head. He was wearing one of those famously unfashionable gowns with the fabric at the knees worn thin in vivid testimony of how much time he spent in prayer. A pair of round-toed shoes peeked out from under the hem; he refused to wear shoes with long points. His face was so pale as to appear bloodless, a combination of too much bleeding and too little sun.
“How well he looks,” the people around him murmured.
The Earl of Wiltshire, he of the golden curls, said: “You look well rested, Sire.”
But Warwick was one of the few who didn’t regard Henry’s piety as sufficient exculpation for his other failings. In his unbiased view Henry didn’t look well, and for a man who had been effectively asleep for almost a year and a half, he didn’t even look well rested. When he extended his hand to receive Warwick’s reverence, it dangled limply, as if his wrist lacked the strength to lift it. So with his head. It hung between hunched shoulders as if the thin neck wouldn’t support its weight, or as if perpetually bowed in prayer. He looked somewhat like his gown: old, shabby, worn out, a little ragged at the edges. Redundant.
A whisper ran through the chamber: “The Queen comes…”
Margaret entered with four ladies attending her, two duchesses, Somerset and Exeter, and two countesses, Devon and Shrewsbury, and with a solemn-faced page holding the train of her gown. Following behind this little procession came the focal point of all eyes: The Duchess of Buckingham, a napkin on her shoulder, carried the fourteen-month-old prince. As soon as the Queen entered, the chamber grew quiet. An avenue opened up between her and the King, who watched her arrival with eyes in which there was no welcome, no warmth.
Oh, good! He hasn’t yet seen the boy. Warwick got himself into a position beside his uncle of Buckingham from where he could observe Henry’s face and Margaret’s too, and all but rubbed his hands in glee. What will he say, Daft Harry, when he sees the son supposedly born to him while he was
out woolgathering? He wondered if anyone had thought to warn Henry what was about to happen, or was it to be a surprise?
Margaret kneeled before the chair. Obviously, this was not their first encounter, for she said: “How do I find you today, my good lord?”
The royal head wobbled up and down on the thin neck. “Well enough, dear wife. Well enough.”
“I rejoice to see you recovered. Now that you are back with us all will be well.”
The Queen’s attendants had parted, allowing Anne of Buckingham to come forward and stand behind the Queen. Henry lifted his eyes to her and then lowered them quickly, saying nothing.
“May I rise, Sire?” Margaret asked after some moments.
Remembering himself, Henry stretched out a hand that shook as if palsied to help her to her feet. It was obvious to those watching that if she had utilised that hand at all, she would have tumbled to the floor in an ungraceful heap.
“He is very weak,” Buckingham murmured to Warwick “His joints have stiffened, and his muscles have shrunk through lack of use. He can barely stand let alone walk.”
“A little exercise will set him right,” said Warwick, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. As if anything could set Henry right.
Turning, Margaret indicated the child in the duchess’s arms. “Sire, it gives me great pleasure to present your son, Prince Edward.”
She’s good, Warwick thought admiringly. She managed to say that without a tremor. Oh, I wish Somerset were here to witness this. I would like to watch his face too.
King and prince gazed at each other for some moments with uncannily similar expressions of childlike solemnity. Then young Edward’s attention was caught by a bright bauble in the duchess’s headdress and, with a crow of glee, he fastened acquisitive fingers on it. Henry had a particular affinity for children. Often, upon having a noble infant presented to him, he would take the child on his lap and tickle it into a fit of giggles. He made no move to take the prince but continued to regard him in a silence that stretched on and on, until everyone in the room could feel the tension drawn tight as a bowstring in the hand of a Welsh archer. Sweat beaded on Margaret’s high brow. If the rumours were true, and Warwick didn’t doubt them, she had taken an incalculable risk to give Henry the heir he was incapable of getting himself to perpetuate the Lancastrian dynasty. All that was required from him were words of acknowledgement. He couldn’t even get that right.
“Is he not a fine boy, your Grace?” the Duchess of Buckingham prompted. Her charge was screaming because every time he reached for the bright bauble, she guided his hand away.
When Henry finally spoke, Warwick wasn’t disappointed. His eyes were drifting away, down to some spot on the floor, as he murmured, “This child must have been sired by the Holy Ghost.”
Warwick’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, as low-voiced murmurs of surprise and consternation rose around him. He looked at the Queen. She seemed frozen with shock, her face devoid of all colour. He could well imagine the panic she was feeling. It had lasted only a few moments before she gathered her scattered wits. Cool under fire, he had to give her that.
“Indeed, Sire, a blessing from God if ever there was one,” she said, forcing a smile that was a travesty. “I named him Edward because he was born on the Feast of Edward the Confessor. Does the name please you?”
He gave her a wan smile. “I trust he will live up to that saintly name.”
As he quit the chamber later, Warwick was already composing in his mind the letter he would send to his intimates around the country. God’s Teeth, what a fool the King was! There, in that one sentence was conclusive proof of his unfitness to rule. Was it possible that even Daft Harry couldn’t see the ramifications of what he’d just said? Rumours were one thing – almost inevitable perhaps in the circumstances – but from his own mouth Henry had given them substance and jeopardised his dynasty by confirming doubt where absolute certainty should exist that would haunt the boy to the end of his days. The words could mean nothing but a denial of paternity. They would be repeated all over the kingdom, conclusions drawn and never forgotten.
After supper in the great hall, Warwick sought out his uncle of Buckingham and invited him to take a walk. They climbed to the battlements of the curtain wall and strolled along the parapet walk, one of the few places in an overcrowded castle where one could be reasonably sure of not being overheard. The night was so chilly that a rime of frost already lay upon the merlons, shining in the flare of torches stuck in iron brackets.
Without wasting words, Warwick said: “This is a disaster.”
“I don’t agree. The sooner the King recovers, the sooner things will get back to normal.”
“Normal. Normal! Is that what you want?”
“What I want, what England needs, is stability.”
“You won’t get that when Somerset returns to power. What you’ll get is more disorder, more corruption, more of the same old governmental ineptitude.” They fell silent until a sentry had passed. “Uncle,” Warwick went on, “you must continue to support the protectorate. Henry is clearly unfit to rule. He was unfit before his brain shut down and he’ll remain unfit. Who can say when he might be similarly afflicted? This is not stability.”
The Duke’s steps slowed. He leant between two merlons, his bare hands splayed on the crenel. Warwick stood beside him, gazing down at the few lights showing in the town. The river was black under cold stars. One of the castle dogs barked, a ruckus that ended with a yowl.
Warwick blew out a stream of vapour and pressed on: “Everyone speaks of how my uncle of York tamed the Irish, but in fact, he simply gave them something they’d seldom had from their English overlords: fair and impartial justice and a functioning administration. He can do that for England too, but he needs more time if he’s to get anything accomplished.”
The Duke turned, leant against the crenel and thrust his hands into his armpits. He looked at Warwick thoughtfully. “I told my brother-by-marriage he would have my support while the King’s illness lasted. I did not promise perpetual support. I have kept my word. Many of our peers feel as I do: They want the protectorate at an end. It was only instituted as an emergency measure, and the emergency is now over. Some are jealous of the power York holds and some are resentful that he used that power to remove from their posts officers chosen by the King and install his own people.”
“Corrupt men who regard their own interests as supreme. You can’t reform a government if everyone in that government – top, bottom and middle – doesn’t want it reformed because it’s working well for them. The only way to do it is to start again from the top.”
The Duke eyed him coldly. “And what of you, Warwick? By what right do you have a seat on the council? And whose interests do you regard as supreme?”
“I’m ambitious, Uncle, I admit it. I’m eager to rise, to leave my mark on the world, and I believe I have talents that can be utilised for the good of the kingdom. But my time is not yet. You once said that my uncle of York deserved the first place in the government. You’re right of course. The King is the King; he will always be the supreme head, the final arbiter. But by birth, blood and ability, by every standard, my uncle of York should be his chief adviser. Without the support of men like you, he will be nothing. He will retire to his estates, his talents wasted.”
“I will support him no longer. I will always support the King. If he wishes the protectorate at an end, that is the way it must –”
“Uncle! It is your duty to advise the King, not to –”
“Do not presume to tell me my duty, you insolent pup! A good night to you.”
Warwick watched in disgust as the Duke walked away, his lanky figure stooping to pass through the door of a tower. He thinks he’s honourable, but he’s just a blinkered, immovable old turnip who’ll stick to shit even though he knows it stinks.
Chapter 12
January 1455 – Westminster Palace
A new year, begun badly. The Duchess of York had returned to Fo
theringhay to spend Christmas with her children. The Duke was left alone in London at a time when he had never needed the solace of her company more. In the city the mayor had a proclamation read informing the people of their King’s return to health, and the loyal citizens cheered. Those who were so inclined crowded into the taverns to drink a toast, while others went to their parish churches to say a prayer for his complete and lasting recovery.
There was no rejoicing in Baynard’s Castle, nor any celebration of the Nativity save a feast for the servants and the traditional gift giving on New Year’s Eve. York was in despair. When he looked back at the eight short months of his Protectorate, it seemed that he had accomplished very little. He had managed to keep the peace certainly, precarious as it was, but the Devon-Bonvile feud continued unresolved. With the council’s agreement, he had set about the task of reducing the size of the royal household to cut expenses. Six weeks ago, he instructed Norfolk to go ahead with the Commission of Enquiry into Somerset’s doings in France. So much for that! Now that Henry’s wits had returned, Margaret would have no trouble manipulating him. Somerset was out of the Tower faster than a fox into a hencoop – and likely feeling mighty vindictive. Was that all? Yes, that was it. The good government he had promised the people, the sweeping changes he had intended, the reforms he had cherished – all as insubstantial as dandelion seeds, and what little he had accomplished would be undone.
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