“There was no time!”
“Rubbish! I was with you for weeks in Ireland. Why didn’t you mention it then?”
“I hadn’t decided. Not entirely. Not until I heard about Northampton. It was like St. Albans all over again. Power was mine but how long could I hold it? Would I be granted enough time to get anything accomplished? This time I determined that things should end differently.”
“Rubbish,” Warwick said again. “You were certainly considering it while I was in Ireland, hence the inclusion of that phrase ‘of royal blood’ in the manifesto. We swore our allegiance to Henry after Northampton. We were able to win over the Londoners and the churchmen, aye, even some of our enemies, by assuring them that we intended nothing that was contrary to the allegiance we owed the King. You made liars and fools of us all.”
Now that tempers had cooled somewhat, and before they could flare up again, Salisbury said: “For the love of God, let us not fall out among ourselves when we’re at our greatest strength. Nothing’s more certain than what’s done can’t be undone. So let’s try to discuss this calmly and perhaps we can salvage something from the situation.”
“I intend to press my claim,” said the Duke, with the stubbornness of a man who knows he’s in the wrong but can’t bring himself to back down. “Say what you will, I won’t withdraw it.” He turned to the window, his back to them as if he had said all there was to say.
But Warwick wasn’t finished with him yet. “Do so by all means. Fly in the face of public opinion and your friends’ advice. But here’s my prediction for what it’s worth: You’ll never wear the crown. By your precipitate acts today you’ve ruined any chance you might have had of winning it.”
Warwick flung out of the room. Salisbury looked as if he wanted to say something but York’s back was rigid and he followed his son. The two earls waited until it was clear their father had nothing to say to them and also left. They collected their horses and rode off toward the city and Baynard’s Castle. During the time they had been in the palace, it had begun to drizzle.
“Why didn’t you acclaim him?” Edmund asked. “You have so much to gain. Didn’t it occur to you that if he were acclaimed king, you would be king in your turn?”
Why didn’t I? Edward asked himself. What is the truth? Is it because I am accustomed to following where Warwick leads, and Warwick was silent, looking so fierce, so furious, so I remained silent, and the moment passed? How strange to think that had I spoken up the course of my life might – just might – have been changed.
But he said nothing of this to his brother. It would be like admitting that he had chosen Warwick over their father. Edmund would not understand. “I meant what I said, although I could have phrased it better. I was too startled to think clearly. Perhaps everyone was, and that’s why he didn’t get the response he wanted. I think Warwick was right: these things have to be carefully planned. Now it’s too late. When did you find out?”
“Hereford. I believe he wanted to talk it over with Mother before finally making up his mind to it. She encouraged him. And then he told the household.”
“I take it you approve?”
“Of course I approve, wholeheartedly!” Edmund declared passionately. “Without a doubt, Father would make a better king than Henry, who’s a dotard, and Mother would make a better queen than Margaret. And you’d make a better Prince of Wales than that odious brat she whelped. How could I not approve?”
“Well, if you put it like that…” said Edward, smiling.
“But above all,” said Edmund, who was not smiling, was very earnest, “it has become a simple case of self-preservation.”
“You might be right, but the point is this: Why, oh why, did he take such a vitally important step without consulting our uncle and cousin?”
“Perhaps he should have, but I understand why he didn’t and you might, too, if you opened your eyes. Warwick has grown too big for his boots and has delusions of filling Father’s. He deserves to be knocked back a step or two.”
“I don’t think that was the best way to do it,” Edward said and shrugged. “I blame the Irish. You wrote that Father was treated like royalty over there. They’ve given him ideas above his station.”
“Above his station?” Edmund spluttered. “How can you of all people say that? He deserves to be king. It’s his right. If you dare to deny it, I’ll knock you off your horse!”
“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sweet nature,” Edward laughed, raising an arm as if to ward off a blow. “All right, enough of this. All we’ve talked about is Father. I want to hear about you. How was Ireland?”
“It was deadly dull, and I surprised myself by missing you. I’m overjoyed to be home. I just wish the circumstances were different.”
“Are we back to Father again? Come on, youngling, I’ll race you to Baynard’s.”
Chapter 47
October 1460 – London
George Neville, Bishop of Exeter and Chancellor of England, responded to his brother’s summons speedily, knowing full well that Warwick’s temper would rise in direct proportion to the length of any delay. And he wondered as he hurried along with his Episcopal robes flapping around his ankles if there would ever come a time when he was so great a man that his brother would seek him out instead of summoning him like a servant.
“I want you to stop him!” Warwick ground out through his teeth, rising to his feet, knuckles resting on the surface of a paper-laden desk, eyes fierce, the moment George came through the door.
George sank into a chair. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to stop him!” Warwick roared, and George winced.
“Yes. Yes. How? How am I to do that?”
“I don’t know! You’re supposed to be the clever one in the family. You’re the chancellor. This business is going to fall into your lap. I expect you to stop him. Having York as king is no part of my plan. Do whatever you have to do. Murder. Sacrilege. Treason. I don’t care. Just put an end to the business.”
“I will.” George came to his feet, not sure how he was going to comply but eager for escape. He made it to the door before Warwick’s continuing diatribe halted him.
“Has he taken leave of his senses? Because he’s not going to give up, the fool! Did you see him in Westminster Hall today? Dear God in heaven, you would think one rejection would be enough to humble any man, but no! He must invite another by appearing again, and this time he had the effrontery to sit on the throne! Doesn’t he know that everyone, of every degree, has set his face against him? Why doesn’t he just go home with his tail between his legs as he has after every other setback? By the way, has anyone spoken to Henry?”
“I don’t –”
“Well, you’d better. Let him know that his abdication is not the will of his people. Make sure he knows what is expected of him. For the first time in his wretched life, he’s going to have to fight.”
“Yes, brother,” said George, turning away. His slender white hand was already reaching for the door handle when he bethought himself of something and turned back. “He’s going to be humiliated. And I know that’s his own doing, but since we are so closely associated with him, I wonder how much of the odium will rub off on us.”
“Quite right. That is an unpalatable prospect, but far better than having York as king.” Warwick, came around his desk to lean against it, arms folded over his chest. His mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. “He has tried to diminish me, George. That’s why he didn’t confide in me in Ireland. It’s his way of saying, I don’t need you; I can do this without you. Well, I must show him he can’t. That’s why he must not become king. Do you remember that talk we had the day before the march to Northampton? I was right, wasn’t I? It is high time I began to dissociate myself from him.”
“You said he was a spent force,” the bishop mused. “And you were right about that, too. His judgement is warped; he lacks the detachment to be able to stand aside and look at things clearly, without bias or favour. Al
l he’s succeeded in doing is throwing so much sympathy Henry’s way that if the Queen and Somerset were to appear before the gates tomorrow, the citizens would welcome them with open arms. I swear the people will put up with anything and anybody rather than uncertainty.” He sighed. “Still, I don’t know how you’re going to dissociate yourself from him and keep a following. I really don’t.” And with that, he swung the door open and went out.
Chapter 48
October 1460 – London
Feeling somewhat intimidated by the edifice before him, John Dyneham presented himself at the door of Baynard’s Castle in his city finery, wearing a plume in his cap, held in place by a very fine agate brooch that had been in the family – oh, since men took to wearing a plume in the cap – only to be told by a haughty individual that at Baynard’s Castle tradesmen used the kitchen door.
“But I’m not a tradesman!” John protested.
“Then what are you?” asked the haughty individual, looking him up and down. “Kitchen door, if you please.”
John was so flustered by this reception that he entirely forgot he was a dyed-in-the-wool hero, who had dined with three earls at one sitting and limped round to the kitchen door. The kitchen was almost as big as his house.
“I would like to see the Earl of March, please,” he called into the warm, steamy interior.
Another individual, less haughty than the first but dressed better than John in his Sunday finest and wearing a chain of office, came forward and looked him up and down. “The Earl of March?” he asked incredulously. “And what might your business be?”
“I am a friend of his.” He could say that without boasting.
The individual began to laugh. All the kitchen staff within hearing began to laugh. John, the most even-tempered of men, felt his somnolent temper began to stir.
He drew himself up. “I’m John Dyneham, and I am a friend of the earl’s. I demand that you take me to him.”
In Devonshire he had discovered that the use of the famous name brought amazing results: caps came off, heads ducked, hands reached out to pump his, purses were emptied to buy him ale. Nor did the famous name fail to produce results here in the bowels of Baynard’s Castle. The derisive laughter died away to be replaced by genuinely warm smiles and glances of admiration. The gentleman in front of him who introduced himself as the steward, wrung his hand, offering effusive apologies, and himself conducted John to Edward’s chamber. The obvious delight of his noble friend was enough to soothe the sting caused by the misunderstanding.
“John Dyneham! By my soul, it’s good so see you again. How’s the leg?” Striding forward, he took John by the wrist and, to John’s amazement, pulled him into a breathtaking hug.
“It’s as good as it’s ever going to get, my lord. There has been some permanent damage to muscle and sinew –” John began, once he was released.
But Edward had heard enough. “Excellent,” he interrupted. He hated to have to listen to a litany of bodily ailments and held the view that if he was kind enough to ask, he should be rewarded with an abbreviated answer. “Edmund, here is someone you must meet.”
Another young man uncoiled himself from the window seat, where he had been studying a chessboard. No need for introductions. As Edward draped an arm across his shoulders, it was obvious that they were made from the same clay, although the younger was not quite so tall, nor quite so handsome, as the elder.
Edward said gaily, “Edmund, you see before you the man who single-handedly saved the skins of my lords of Warwick and Salisbury and myself after we fled Ludlow. Not only did he give us shelter in his home, but he also procured the ship that carried us to Calais. Furthermore, he led two raids on Sandwich, seized countless enemy ships, as well as those in charge of them, demonstrating an exemplary bravery throughout, and yet puked at an execution. This is my good friend, John Dyneham. John, my brother Edmund, Earl of Rutland.”
“I don’t blame you in the least. I’m afraid I don’t have a strong stomach either,” the Earl of Rutland said, seizing his wrist with a warm smile. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Dyneham. My brother has told me so much about you. Truly, you are a remarkable man.”
“Thank you, my lord,” John said, feeling himself blush. You’d think he’d be over it now, what with his praises lauded to the sky up and down the south coast and people from far and wide wanting to shake the hand of the famous John Dyneham. Still, praise from a great lord was another matter.
“I’d love to hear all about your adventures from your own lips. Perhaps later? For now, I’ll leave the two of you. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.”
“By the way, were you ever recompensed for our beloved ‘Catherine’?” Edward asked when his brother had gone.
“Well… no, my lord.”
“You will be, my word on it,” Edward said, and probably meant it. He put the chessboard on a nearby table and gestured to the empty seat. “Come and sit down. How is Mistress Joanna?”
“In vigorous good health, as always. She sends you greetings.”
“A wonderful woman, your mother. Speaking of parents: I have become one myself.” There was no other way to put it – Edward positively radiated pride. “Her name is Grace. The first thing she did when I took her in my arms was to reach out her tiny hand and wrap it around my heart. You shall meet her. Her mother, too.”
“I’d love to. Congratulations, my lord! I’m happy for you. You have been busy while I’ve been laid up recuperating. I’m sorry I missed Northampton. I should have liked to have been at your side.”
“I’m happy you weren’t. The battlefield isn’t the best place for a man with a lame leg, and I should hate to lose you.” John looked crestfallen. Edward smiled and pounded him on the back. “Cheer up. I’m sure we can find something better suited to your talents. My cousin of Warwick has just been appointed Constable of Dover Castle and warden of the Cinque Ports. I will ask him to find something for you.”
Overcome, John stammered, “I… oh, my lord, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Lesser men have received rewards without doing half of what you’ve done. Now, I hope you haven’t engaged lodgings because I shall want you to stay here with us while you’re in London. You can share my bed.”
Once again John found himself overcome. That night in Devonshire, when the fugitive earls had arrived at his home, he had shared his bed with Edward and felt privileged, even if it was his bed. But to share the earl’s own bed here in this great house where his parents lived was, he knew, a signal honour. His devotion to Edward had been born that night and had now grown into something resembling hero-worship.
“Come and meet the rest of my family,” Edward said rising. “Everyone’s here except my two married sisters and my father, who’s at Westminster.” He paused at the door with his hand on the latch. “You’ve heard the news, I take it?”
John had no doubt as to what he was referring. “Yes! Almost the moment I set foot in the city. London’s agog with it.”
“Good. I’ll tell you more about that later.” He grinned suddenly. “I don’t know how you feel about animals, but be sure to pet everything Meg introduces you to. If you get bitten, scratched or pecked, just ignore it.”
That night, since Edward was busy with Warwick, William Hastings took John off to the ‘Unicorn’, a popular tavern on Fleet Street. The two of them established themselves in a cozy corner. Edward had promised to join them later if he could get away.
There were times when John had to pinch himself. How different his life would have been if he hadn’t had the unbelievable good fortune to run into those lordly fugitives on Exmoor. How dull it would have been in comparison: regulated, predictable, dreary. Instead, here he was in London, the guest of his friend, the Earl of March and hobnobbing in a tavern with the convivial William Hastings, and getting all the news from the horse’s mouth… well, almost. He couldn’t wait to compose a letter to his mother. And never mind that he had to keep his bad leg thrust ou
t in front of him to ease the constant ache.
“Of course that wasn’t the end of it,” Hastings was saying, merry brown eyes snapping with amusement. “A few days after his entry into London my lord of York once again appeared in Westminster Hall, and this time he sat on the throne, and made a short speech declaring that the crown was his by right of inheritance.” An avid gossip, who adored dissecting and disseminating news, Hastings obviously relished his role as storyteller.
“And what kind of reception did he get this time?” asked John, enthralled.
“The same: gape-mouthed astonishment mixed with a censorious silence. The Lords hoped they had heard the last of the matter after his first rejection, but it was not to be. According to Edward, he had spent the previous days quarrelling with and alienating Warwick instead of drumming up support, with the result that once again there was no acclamation, only general dismay. Undismayed himself, he presented to the Lords a petition that outlined his prior claim and asked for their judgment between him and Henry.”
“Does he have a legal claim, Will,” Dyneham asked, as he knew little about the noble houses and their antecedents.
“I don’t think there can be any dispute about that. You see – and I’ll try to keep it simple – King Edward III was a prolific prince, but only four of his sons are relevant to our story. The first was Edward, known as the Black Prince. He predeceased his father so it was his son who inherited the crown as Richard II after Edward’s death. The second was Lionel, Duke of Clarence who had no male issue, only a daughter named Philippa. The third, John, Duke of Lancaster, was the father of the Beauforts, as well as one legitimate son who I shall speak of further. And the fourth was Edmund, Duke of York. Now we come to the second generation. Richard II was an unpopular king and was eventually deposed and murdered. As he was childless, the line of the Black Prince came to an end with his death. However, he had recognised as his heir Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, who was the son of Philippa, the only daughter of the second son, the Duke of Clarence. When Henry of Bolingbrook, the only legitimate son of Lancaster, seized the throne to become Henry IV, the first king of the house of Lancaster, Roger Mortimer was still a child and it was easy enough for Lancaster to ignore his rights. Had he been a man grown the story might have had a different ending.”
This Sun of York Page 42
