A Leicestershire man, Hastings was robustly handsome, with a rather florid complexion, large brown eyes that seemed to reflect an appreciation of the humorous side of life and a mass of chestnut curls that refused to follow the current straight and flat fashion no matter what methods he used to tame them. One of his mistresses had likened him to a robin redbreast. He was twenty-four years old and had served the house of York man and boy, as had his father before him. He hoped one day to have his services to his lord rewarded with a knighthood.
The earls greeted him warmly. Of their father’s many retainers he was one of their favourites, a man of unfailing good humour, who adored gossip and had a huge store of witty, wicked anecdotes.
Hastings bowed, then grinned and grasped the wrists of the two boys in turn. “Look at you two! Every time I see you you’ve grown again.”
“Sir Richard says you have important news, Will,” said Edward, once the civilities were exchanged and questions asked and answered about the family’s well-being.
“Stay, Sir Richard, you might as well hear this,” Hastings said to the governor, who had in fact shown no sign of leaving. He reclaimed his seat by the fire, while the two earls disposed themselves on a chest at the foot of the bed.
After taking a long swig from his tankard, Hastings looked solemnly at the group around him. “You may have heard that the King has summoned a great council to sit at Leicester.”
“No,” Edward replied, “but we’re so isolated here that any news we get is usually a fortnight old and so buffeted by its journey across England it’s almost unrecognisable.”
“Is the King making an effort at governing then? Is that what it means?” asked Edmund, swinging a well-turned leg off the side of the chest. Along with his brother and their friends, he often poked fun at ‘Mad Harry’ who had suddenly and inexplicably gone wool-gathering for fully sixteen months. During that time he had been unable to perform for himself the most basic functions, before just as suddenly recovering his wits again – or what few wits he had.
“If anything it’s a further sign that the Queen and Somerset are firmly in control and ready to make their move. The writs have already gone out. The recipients have been advised to provide themselves with a strong escort. My lord your father has not been summoned and neither have the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick. They feel, quite naturally, that they have the right to attend such a council.”
“It is a symptom of the wretched condition of the government that a man of my lord’s rank and proven abilities is not offered a seat on the council,” Croft said indignantly. For the benefit of the two boys, he explained: “A great council has a different purpose than the King’s council. It is rarely called and usually only when the King needs the help and advice of his nobles during a particular crisis. So far as I know, there is no crisis.” He glanced at Hastings.
“Not yet,” said Hastings, “but there will be.”
Despite his youth, Edward was more perceptive than many a grown man and was struck by the reference to a strong escort. “It’s no more than a pretext for an armed mustering, isn’t it?”
Hastings tipped his tankard toward the boy. “So we think, my lord. So we think. Your father has been keeping quietly to his estates since his protectorate came to an end and the same is true of the Nevilles. This is clearly a move to goad them into action so their enemies can attack. The wording of the summons is ‘to provide for the safety of the King against his enemies.’ Said enemies aren’t named but manifest, nonetheless. It is a deliberate provocation.”
“So the man who held the King’s safety in his hands for a full twelvemonth is now regarded as a threat,” Edmund said incredulously. “How can the King be so –?” He broke off before he said something disrespectful about his sovereign.
“This is Somerset’s doing,” Croft said, disposing himself in the other fireside chair. “He had a long time in the Tower with nothing better to do than plan my lord the Duke’s destruction. This is his opening gambit.”
“And the Queen’s,” said Hastings. “He doesn’t make a move without her blessing.”
“A pity Father couldn’t keep him in there forever,” Edmund said. “The injustice of it! But even that pales beside the King’s ingratitude. What kind of mess would he have awoken to if Father hadn’t held things together for him?”
“My lord!” Croft said in the warning voice that had once brought the earls to heel but nowadays seemed to have little effect. Criticism of the King was not something the Duke either encouraged or tolerated.
“Well, it’s true,” Edmund said impenitently. Quicker to anger than his brother, he was also slower to forgive.
“What answer will our father make, Will?” Edward asked.
“The only thing possible,” said Hastings and paused for no better reason than dramatic effect, while he took a leisurely drink of ale and regarded the two young lords over the rim of the cup. “There is to be a mustering at Sandal Castle. His Grace intends to ride on Leicester and demand a hearing from the King. My Lords of Salisbury and Warwick go with him.”
Hastings watched the reaction to this news. The earls shared a quick glance. When Edward looked back at him, there was an eager expectancy in the vivid blue eyes.
“And what is to be our part?”
“You, my lord, are to muster the men of the marches and lead them to Sandal.”
The boy couldn’t believe his ears. “Me? I’m to lead them? Personally?” he asked, labouring to be clear. To his mortification, his voice had gone from bass to treble and back again within the few words. This was no time for that particular affliction to manifest itself!
“You. Personally,” said Hastings, grinning because the boy’s pleasure was irresistible.
Edward turned with a radiant smile to his brother – who was not smiling. “What about me?” Edmund asked, his voice a squeaky treble.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Hastings said with genuine sympathy. “It’s business as usual for you. Don’t fret, though. Your time will come.”
Edmund was incapable of dissembling. He looked, and was, crushed, and there was just a suspicion of tears. “I don’t understand. I’m only a year younger than Edward. A year is nothing!”
“At your age, a year can make a big difference. But in truth, it has little to do with your age. As the elder, Edward is needed. Your lord father is too wise to risk both his sons at the same time. That’s why you must stay behind. As I said, your turn will come soon enough, and you’ll have your part to play in the important affairs of the kingdom. No need to hurry along the inevitable.”
Edward put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and gave it a consoling squeeze, but Edmund shrugged it off and in the same movement bent over to fiddle with a buckle on his shoe that needed no attention. An unexpected and unwanted emotion rose like bile in his throat. Never before had he resented the thirteen months difference in his and Edward’s ages or been envious of his brother’s seniority. They had always been treated as equals and had treated each other as equals; never separated, always each other’s closest companion. He had other companions, of course: a dozen nobly and gently born youths who shared their tutelage at Ludlow. But those others couldn’t compensate for the loss of his brother. He couldn’t imagine going to bed without Edward at his side, snatching the blankets off him or buffeting him with pillows. Or going to the schoolroom without Edward’s jests and mischief to liven up the tedium. Or riding out to hunt duck, quail or partridge, setting snares, practising with sword and lance, playing chess, all the things that filled their days and which Edward somehow made more enjoyable. And now his brother was going off adventuring while he was to be left at home, sick with jealousy.
To make matters worse, he knew that if their situations were reversed Edward would never begrudge him such a privilege, such a rare demonstration of their father’s trust. He had a big heart, did Edward. Sometimes.
Having adjusted his buckle to his satisfaction, he stood up and went to the door.
“W
here are you going?” Edward called after him.
“I’m sure the three of you have important matters to discuss. I’ll go and play hoops or something with the other children,” he replied in scathing tones, and banged the door behind him with considerable force.
“He’s understandably upset,” said Edward before the other two could comment on his brother’s behaviour and, slapping his hands together, asked eagerly: “What’s required of me, Will?”
Hastings turned to Croft. “Lord Edward is to be excused further lessons. From now on, he’s going to be very busy.” A happy exclamation erupted from the subject before, under a stern glare from his governor, he composed himself to a more serious mien, more in keeping with the task assigned to him. Hastings turned to him. “My lord, you are to raise one thousand men, at least half of which must be archers. You will make sure that each one is adequately armed and equipped, that there are sufficient wagons available to carry all the food and other paraphernalia necessary for a march from tents down to cooking pots. All these matters will be your responsibility. Do you foresee any problems?”
“No, sir.” Said with confidence.
“You are to have them at Sandal by the first of May.”
The blue eyes widened at this, but Edward was more controlled than his brother and only said with a smile: “You are right. I shall be very busy.”
The horn sounded from the keep, signalling that dinner was served, and Hastings bounded to his feet.
“I’m leaving everything in your hands, as your father instructed me to.” He led the way out of the chamber with a friendly arm draped over Edward’s shoulders. “But I’ll be on hand if you need me. And I’ll check on your progress from time to time. You understand?”
“Certainly.” Edward understood only too well. He could almost hear his father’s voice barking: ‘Time he had some responsibility, see how he does. But keep a close eye on him, Will. A very close eye.’ He privately determined that no setback or shortfall on his part would give his father reason for criticism.
The news had already spread all over the castle in that mysterious way news had of leaking under doors and through cracks in the mortar, and the hall was buzzing with excitement. Dinner was Lenten fare: fresh caught trout in a cream sauce, lamprey frumenty and eel pie with plenty of newly baked bread, followed by oatcakes drizzled in honey and a lemony custard. Though he ate with the voracious appetite of one perpetually hungry, Edward hardly noticed what passed between his lips. His head was stuffed with questions, plans and dreams of adventure.
Edmund came in late, slouched in his seat, refused to take any part in the conversation, except to remark caustically when the subject came up that even a child like him knew it was a hundred miles from Ludlow to Sandal. He did all in his power to let everyone know that he was in an ugly mood and they had best leave him alone if they knew what was good for them.
“How many men does my father plan to muster, Will?” Edward asked as he shovelled in eel pie too fast for proper digestion.
“Five thousand. Two thousand himself, including your marcher men, and the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick have agreed to supply fifteen hundred each.”
“That’s an army and no mistake.” Making sure that Croft wasn’t looking, he appropriated his companion’s cup of undiluted wine and took a long swig. Hastings said nothing, merely signalled for a refill. “Is it going to be another Blackheath, Will?”
Hastings' eyebrows flew up. The boy’s astuteness astonished him. “Drawing parallels?” he asked.
“Inevitably.”
“At Blackheath, a battle was not his intention. He was merely looking to his safety. But this time… This time there seems to be a very different feeling in the air. I think it very likely there will be war. It’s come to the point where the Queen will be satisfied with nothing less than the destruction of your house.”
“Why? Why does she have her heart set against us?”
“The boy,” Hastings said succinctly.
“You mean – the prince?”
Hastings smiled and wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive fashion.
“You don’t believe he’s the King’s son? I’ve heard the rumours. But now that she has a child and the succession is assured, why can’t she just mind her loom?”
“Because the old jealousies and suspicions are still there, only now compounded by the fierce protectiveness of motherhood. She has two vulnerable beings to save from the perils she imagines all around them: a small child and a mad husband.”
“I see your point.”
“Women and politics are a recipe for disaster. How she must rail at the fate that gave her the wrong gender! Even so, she believes she’s a match for any man.”
So eager was he to embark upon the adult responsibilities entrusted to him that Edward elected not to join his companions for their afternoon exercises in knightly skills after dinner. Instead, he retired to his and Edmund’s bedchamber in the Pendover Tower, where he carefully assembled all the necessary writing implements, a stick of wax and his seal. Several sheets of parchment lay before him, and the ink was already prepared. Although he could have used a clerk, he wanted to write the letters in his own hand. This, he thought, as he dipped a freshly sharpened quill and then wiped it on the side of the inkpot to avoid blots, pausing to savour the heady moment, was what his life so far had been in preparation for. Boyhood was behind him, and he didn’t doubt that great things lay ahead.
The first letter was to Sir William Herbert of Raglan, known locally as Black Will. Herbert had served both as sheriff of Warwick’s town of Glamorgan and as constable and steward of some of York’s marcher lordships. He had considerable influence in South Wales and the marches. His younger brother, Thomas, was among the youths receiving their training in knighthood along with the earls at Ludlow, and was a boon companion. Black Will was the best marksman in the marches and kept penury at bay by winning prizes all over the country. The next letter was to Sir Walter Devereaux, the father of Herbert’s cherished wife. There were letters to the Vaughans and the Thomases and others, and estimates in his head about how many men each could bring. Once he had finished the letters, the young earl selected couriers, men he knew to be quick and reliable, and sent them on their way before returning to his bedchamber to begin requisition lists.
After two days of abject misery, Edmund inevitably found the general air of excitement that permeated the castle too hard to resist. Edward delegated some tasks to him so that he didn’t feel entirely left out, and he soon forgot to sulk.
When the muster was complete, the banners of York unfurled against a patchwork of blue sky and fluffy white clouds, and the men of the Marches streamed out of Ludlow bound for Shrewsbury and the road to the northeast. Edward was eager for this. He would finally meet his cousin of Warwick, of whom he had heard so much, and his uncle of Salisbury, who had fought at Agincourt as a boy. His heart leapt at the prospect of high adventure, of valiant deeds yet to be done, experiences yet to be explored. On this bright, cool April morning, when the buds had burst into full leaf, and the hedgerows were full of spring colours, he felt that the world was at his feet just waiting for him to plunder her treasures.
But poor Edmund! The long face and hangdog expression were back. At the moment of parting the sympathy he felt for his brother somewhat tempered Edward's excitement. He knew how wretched Edmund must be feeling, but he knew also – and hoped Edmund would one day – that his father was wise not to risk both his sons. There were others of course, but George and Richard were too young to be of much use to him for many years to come, whereas he and Edmund were approaching the age where they could help their father in his struggle against the Queen and Somerset.
He grasped Edmund’s forearm. Then, yielding to impulse, leant down from the saddle to embrace his brother warmly, something Edmund would not have tolerated under any other circumstances. On this memorable morning he submitted without protest and, when Edward released him, swallowed a lump in his throat.
&n
bsp; “I shall miss you,” he said miserably.
“I’ll miss you too, little brother.” Edward’s tone was light. He gathered the reins but held the horse in check. “You’d better behave yourself. I won’t be here to shield you from the consequences of your folly.”
“Funny, I always thought it was I who did the shielding, you who did the folly. I tremble to think how you’ll manage without me,” Edmund retorted in a game attempt to match his brother’s banter that somehow fell flat. They smiled at one another. “Take care of yourself, Edward.”
“I always do. You too, little brother.”
He kicked his heels, and the horse started forward to join the column of men streaming out of the castle, down the causeway and through the town, where the people came out of their houses to wave and cheer them on their way.
Chapter 15
May 1455 – Sandal Castle, Yorkshire
The Duke of York was in his privy chamber with his clerks and ubiquitous servants, sat behind a desk piled with correspondence and writing implements, all neatly arranged, for he was a meticulous man. Few things irritated him more than sloppiness and disorder.
Warwick stood by a window. No glazing here, and only an arrow slit; Sandal boasted few modern amenities. Leaning into the deep embrasure afforded him a narrow view of the inner bailey. The space below was full of milling soldiers. Some were busy helping to load provisions onto the wagons waiting below or attending to their gear, and some just stood around talking. A group squatted to throw dice. Another group surrounded a pair of knights practising swordsmanship. His own men were the most conspicuous. He had arrived at the Duke’s castle at the head of fifteen hundred men raised on his far-flung estates, all of them wearing his scarlet livery, with the badge of the Bear and Ragged Staff sewn on their shoulders, all properly armed and accoutered. It would have reflected to his detriment had any of his men presented shabbily. With him were his brother John, who was twenty-four and his youngest brother Thomas, aged fourteen. George attended Oxford and was intended for a career in the church. It was an unwritten law that every great house must have a churchman in its ranks, and Salisbury had a son to spare.
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